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The Track of a Storm 


by 

OWEN HALL 


r * 2 






PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVI 





n. 


Copyright, 1895, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A, 


CONTENTS. 


PART I. 

PAGE 

The Gathering Clouds. Found among the Papers 
of Samuel Marvin, of London, Banker, de- 
ceased 5 

PART II. 

In the Storm. Charles Fortescue’s Story 57 

PART III. 

After the Storm 245 


3 













I 





PART I. 

THE GATHERING CLOUDS. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF SAMUEL MARVIN, 
OF LONDON, BANKER, DECEASED. 


1 * 


5 







* 


\ 










THE TRACK OF A STORM 


PART I. 

THE GATHERING CLOUDS. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF SAMUEL MARVIN, OF 
LONDON, BANKER, DECEASED. 


CHAPTER I. 

This is my birthday. I am sixty-five years old to- 
day. Hot a great age, certainly. My family have 
always made a practice of living a good deal longer 
than that, so that I might reasonably expect another 
ten years or so of life at any rate. I don’t say I don’t 
expect it, either. I only say my doctor is of a different 
opinion. He was here to-day, and told me not to look 
forward to another birthday. He may be right, of 
course. Fortunately, it is just about as likely he is 
wrong. Perhaps, after all, it doesn’t matter very much. 
I am quite alone in the world, and outside the bank I 
have very few interests. In the bank I suspect they 
begin to look on me as an old fogy. The name isn’t 
complimentary — though why old fogy should be less 
pleasant than old man I don’t know, — but the thing is 
common enough. Perhaps I am. I dare say if the 

7 


8 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


doctor should turn out to be right, the bank will get on 
very well without me. I feel sure I should not get on 
very well without the bank. If I have grown useless 
there, I can’t be of much use anywhere. If I am not 
wanted at the bank, it would puzzle me to say where I 
am wanted. 

My life has been far from eventful. How on earth 
should it be, I should like to know, when it has been 
tied to the bank for forty-five years ? Looking back 
now, I can only recall a single incident in the whole of 
it which was either startling or remarkable, and that 
didn’t happen until two years ago. Perhaps other 
people wouldn't consider even that remarkable, but at 
any rate I do, or I shouldn’t take the trouble of writ- 
ing it down. If other people had been as close to the 
event as I was, it might have struck them differently. 
If they had been in my place, they might have thought 
it remarkable, too. This is what happened: I was 
robbed on the King’s highway, in the year of Grace 
1832, of a hundred and twenty-five pounds and a dia- 
mond ring, and in the following year I secured the 
conviction of the man accused of the robbery and of 
murder committed at the same time. The man was 
sentenced to be hanged, but in the end he was only 
transported for life. I am glad now that he was not 
hanged. At the time I thought it a failure of justice, 
and I said so. Now it takes a weight off my mind, 
and I don’t mind confessing it. 

The man was convicted on my evidence, and I was 
never more sure of anybody in my life than I was of 
him. I confess I am not nearly so sure of him now, 
and the doubt is not agreeable. If I was wrong, then 
an innocent man has suffered, and I suppose is suffering 
now, owing to a terrible mistake. In that case I can 


THE GATHERING ^CLOUDS 9 

only say I did it ignorantly. I can only hope that 
some kind of reparation may yet be possible. If my 
doctor should happen to be correct, I shall not live to 
see it. That is no reason, I suppose, why I should not 
leave my version of the story on record, in case the 
matter ever turns up again. Sometimes I half believe 
it will, and in that case what I have to say may be of 
some use. I don’t say I have changed my mind. I 
don’t say Jenkins was innocent. All I say is that it 
now seems just possible that he may have been. All I 
feel is that the more I think about it the more I am 
puzzled. Pray understand me once for all. I am not 
a lawyer, but a banker, and I am not going to tell this 
story as a lawyer would tell it. I mean to tell it all, 
but I mean to tell it all in my own way. If the doctor 
is right, it will be just as well ; if he should happen to 
be wrong, which is no doubt fully as likely, no harm 
will have been done. 

I had been to Paris on business of the bank, and was 
on my way home. I am not fond of travelling at the 
best of times ; and the end of November is not, as a 
rule, the best of times for travelling. The rule was 
not proved by November, 1832. It was no exception 
in the matter of November weather. I don’t like bad 
English weather, but I like bad French weather even 
worse. I was glad to get into the Dover packet. I 
was positively relieved to hear the good, hearty swear- 
ing of Christian sailors once more. The passage was 
cold, but it was not tedious, and by eleven o’clock that 
night I was enjoying a glass of hot brandy and water 
before a big fire in the snuggest corner of the “ Ship” 
Inn at Dover. The easterly wind had given me an 
appetite for the brandy and water, and the brandy and 
water gave me an appetite for bed. I never slept more 


10 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


soundly in my life than I did on the night of the 18th 
of November, 1832. 

Next morning I was all right, which is more than 
the weather was. I had breakfast, of course, and it 
isn’t important to mention what I had for breakfast. I 
had only just finished, and was looking out of the win- 
dow at the rather dreary prospect, when another travel- 
ler came into the room. I turned half round to look at 
him. He was busy unrolling a huge comforter from 
his neck, and equally busy taking a good look at the 
room. There are some people who must see all there 
is to be seen. They are usually thin people, I think, 
and they generally have small eyes. This man was 
certainly thin, and his eyes were decidedly small. He 
was a melancholy man, but his eyes were his most 
singular feature. They were something like a dark 
lantern, mostly concealed, but startlingly bright when 
they were uncovered. They were uncovered now, and 
as they glanced at me for a moment I had a disagree- 
able feeling that he had been taking an inventory of 
my clothing so that he might know me again. Just 
then he caught my eye. 

“ Servant, sir,” he observed, in a soft, rather slow 
voice, that agreed excellently with his appearance, all 
but his eyes, but didn’t agree with them at all. “ For 
London, I presume. Dull morning for driving.” 

“ It seems so,” I replied, not exactly pleased at his as- 
suming to know my movements so well, and turning 
again to look out of the window. 

It was certainly an unpromising morning. The east 
wind had changed to a northeaster, and the change had 
not improved matters. The sky was gray and lower- 
ing, and the wind sighed dismally as it swept round 
the corner of the street. The atmosphere looked thick 


THE GATHEKING CLOUDS 


11 


and heavy, and the smoke from the chimneys refused 
to rise, and hung about the roofs and eddied round the 
corners. Few people were to be seen, and these few 
appeared to wish themselves indoors again. 

As I turned from the window, the waiter brought in 
breakfast for my companion. 

“ Do you know when the London coach will start ?” 
I asked him. 

“ Yes, sir. In half an hour, sir,” he answered. 

“In fifteen minutes, exactly,” said the stranger, in 
the same melancholy voice as before. “ So pour out 
that coffee, if you please, and look sharp about it.” 

I looked at the speaker once more. His attention 
was fixed on his breakfast, and his face looked if pos- 
sible more melancholy than ever, but I felt sure at a 
glance that he had not spoken hastily, and that if he 
said quarter of an hour, the coach was not likely to be 
much later. I went up-stairs to pack my travelling- 
bag. It didn’t take me long to do this, but before I had 
finished I heard the hoarse, foggy notes of the horn, 
and the roll of the coach as it came round the corner 
and drew up at the door. I made haste to get into my 
great coat, gloves, and comforter, and hurried down- 
stairs to pay my bill, but before I was ready to start I 
could hear that the driver was getting impatient. I 
did mean to try an outside seat, but the first keen blast 
of wind decided me to do otherwise. “ Here you are, 
sir,” shouted the guard, holding the door open for me 
to get in. In a moment I had got in, and the door was 
slammed to behind me. In another moment I had sunk 
into a vacant seat, and the coach had started. The 
man I had left at his breakfast was there before me. 
Once more he had got into his great coat, he was once 
more half-buried in his huge comforter; and he had 


12 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


secured the best seat in the coach. I could have sworn 
he would. The second best seat was occupied also. I 
looked at the man who had taken it, and the man im- 
mediately apologized. Of course he was a French- 
man, and, of course, while he apologized for taking the 
best seat, he kept it. I am not fond of Frenchmen, 
and I don’t care for apologies, so I said nothing, but 
prepared to make the best of it. I sat opposite the 
Frenchman, with my back to the horses. The other 
passenger who, thank heaven, was English, sat beyond 
the Frenchman, farthest from the door. He was nearly 
buried in his comforter, and he said nothing either. In 
a few seconds the Frenchman stopped ; they generally 
do if you take no notice of them. Perhaps he thought 
I didn’t understand him ; but what does it matter what 
a Frenchman thinks ? 

It didn’t promise to be a lively ride, and we didn’t 
promise to be a lively party. For a wonder, no prom- 
ises were broken. The journey was not a lively one, 
and the company was decidedly dismal. The weather 
was against us, and the state of the roads was not in 
our favor. A seat on the top of the coach on a fine 
day, over a good road and through a good country, is 
enjoyable enough. An inside seat in a coach, creeping 
over a bad road, with a northeaster just visiting the 
back of your neck through two or three cracks; a 
taciturn Englishman wrapped up to his eyes in a great 
coat in one corner, and a fool of a Frenchman buried 
up to his ears in a comforter in the other, is a very 
different business. There wasn’t much to be seen in- 
side. Heaven knows, a Frenchman isn’t much. And 
there was very little more visible outside. Melancholy 
hedgerows, all the worse for a few red leaves that lin- 
gered damp and drooping on the twigs ; trees nearly 


THE GATHEKING CLOUDS 


13 


leafless, but festooned with a cold, gray mist ; fences 
that looked blurred and indistinct in the hazy atmos- 
phere ,’ these formed the view from the window when I 
had rubbed it clear of mist, and the view wasn’t worth 
the trouble. There was nothing else to be seen. Like 
my companions I, too, buried myself in my great coat, 
I, too, settled myself down to make the best of it. 

We made very slow progress. If you know the 
Dover road you will understand the reason: if you 
don’t you must take my word for it. I got out at the 
first stage, half inclined to try an outside seat in spite 
of the weather. Two minutes cured me of that idea. 
The wind had fallen a little, but the weather had grown 
worse. The sky was the color of lead, and the clouds 
hung so low you could fancy you might reach them. 
It didn’t rain and it didn’t snow, but the air was full 
of fine particles of something of the^color of rain and 
the coldness of snow, that seemed to float and swim 
without falling. The guard and coachman both looked 
so wretched that my excursion cost me a brandy and 
water apiece for them, and that was about all I got for 
it. I got back into the coach. Even a Frenchman 
half asleep was not so bad as the weather outside. 
Once more I took refuge in my comforter and coat- 
collar. Once more I tried to make the best of a bad 
bargain. 

Of course we were late for dinner. I suppose we 
were an hour behind time, but it didn’t much matter. 
The dinner was not worth eating when we got it. The 
Frenchman drank a good deal of brandy, and made 
observations on the weather in French. I wasn’t com- 
pelled to defend the weather, so I said nothing. I en- 
vied the other passenger, I admit. lie seemed to be 
able to enjoy his dinner, and he did so. He said very 

2 


14 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


little to any one, but he did a good deal for himself. 
For my part, I had no appetite for my dinner, and just 
about as little for my company. The weather was 
growing worse, and the only comfort was that the road 
could hardly grow much worse than it was. Yet it 
wasn’t these things that troubled me. It seems absurd, 
but it was a fact, that I felt as if something disagreeable 
was going to happen, although I had not the remotest 
idea what it was going to be. A presentiment of evil, 
you will say, perhaps. Stuff and nonsense ; indigestion, 
most likely, with a touch of rheumatism to give it point. 

It was going to snow, that was evident. If we had 
hoped to escape it before, it was plain enough we were 
going to be disappointed now. It wasn’t falling yet, 
but it was in the air. The raw misty particles had 
grown more grey and began to look soft and feathery, 
as they drifted backwards and forwards. The leaden 
clouds were, if possible, nearer to the ground than ever, 
almost touching it, in fact. There was very little wind, 
but what there was had a soft sighing sound that was 
very melancholy. I was actually glad to be in the 
coach again. I was positively satisfied to be shut up 
again with my silent companions. The coach jolted 
on. The cold damp air crept in through the cracks as 
before. The view from the window was, like my com- 
panions, muffled up to the eyes. There was nothing 
for it but to make the best of it. I followed their ex- 
ample at last. I drew up my coat-collar and tried to 
sleep once more. 

I suppose I must have succeeded, for when I again 
became clearly conscious it was with a start. Why I 
woke just then I don’t know. Why I became instantly 
so very wide awake I cannot tell. We were still going 
slowly, and we were still going up-hill. I sat up and 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


15 


rubbed the dim windows with my coat-sleeve. The 
light bad grown grey and grisly inside, and even rub- 
bing the glass didn’t make it much better. It had 
begun to snow, and it had begun to grow dusk. I 
thought I should like, if possible, to see where we were. 
I glanced at my companions . both of them seemed to 
be asleep. I let down the window nearest me and put 
out my head. The snow had begun : it was not heavy, 
but the air was full of it, and a very few yards away 
the view was nothing but a moving haze of soft floating 
grey feathers. I drew in my head. I was just going 
to put up the window 'again, when I heard the dull 
sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road in front of us. I 
paused with the strap in my hand ; I waited to see what 
would happen next. 

What happened was this — A hoarse -throaty voice 
shouted the one word, — “ Stop !” The coach was pulled 
up in an instant, or rather the horses ceased to crawl 
up-hill. “ Stand for your lives !” shouted the voice 
again. This time the tone was sharper and more clear. 
The order was quite useless ; had we had as many lives 
as a cat, we couldn’t have stood more still than we did. 
In another moment he was at the side of the coach, 
looking in at the window, which I still mechanically 
held open. I suppose I ought to have been frightened, 
but I don’t think I was. It felt like a huge joke. Hero 
in 1832 — with the Eeform Bill passed, too — here we 
were in the very act of being robbed by a highway- 
man ! The thing was absurd ; it was out of date. It 
might be so, but, after all, it was a fact. 

“ Sorry to trouble you, gentlemen, I’m sure, but if 
you happen to have any money about you, I must ask 
you to hand it over.” 

It w£^s the same harsh-throaty voice in which he had 


16 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


first spoken. It was a voice which did not, I felt sure, 
belong to the speaker. I looked at him curiously as 
he spoke ; what I saw was a tall young man, with hair 
that was very black, and worn rather long and curly. 
He wore a great coat of coarse rough frieze, buttoned 
up to his throat, a soft hat slouched over his face, 
and a black silk mask which effectually concealed his 
features, all but a pair of very bright black eyes that 
shone fiercely through the eye-holes of the mask, and 
a very small ear, — delicately shaped and tinted like a 
shell. He was riding a tall black horse that looked like 
a hunter, and he sat him like a man accustomed to it. 
I noticed as much as this while he was speaking, and I 
fancied he didn’t care much for my careful scrutiny. 
Perhaps he was a little nervous, for he looked at my 
companions, both of whom were awake by this time, 
and spoke again rather impatiently. 

“ Come, gentlemen ! the cash, if you please ! your 
horses will catch cold if you keep them standing.” 

There was less of the hoarseness in his voice this 
time, and my ear detected one or two remarkable tones 
as he pronounced some of the words. I glanced at my 
companions. Already the Frenchman had produced his 
purse, which he offered with a trembling hand; my 
other companion was fumbling for his in his pocket. 
The robber sat quite still, with his pistol pointed through 
the window. There was no help for it. I pulled out 
my purse reluctantly. He took the Frenchman’s purse 
and dropped it into his coat-pocket. Then he held out 
his hand for mine. The hand was a noticeable one, 
and I couldn’t help remarking it. It was long and thin. 
The fingers were slender yet muscular, and very white. 
The nails were filbert-shaped and beautifully kept. Ho 
matter what it was doing, it was a gentleman’s hand. 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


17 


As he stretched it out he exposed the wrist. It was 
marked with a scar which stood out blue, and curved 
almost to a half circle — a very singular scar. 

I handed him the purse; he took it with a polite 
bow ; as he did so, I remembered that a ring which I 
had taken to Paris for one of my partners, to get re- 
paired, was in it. “ Stay !” I said, “ there’s a ring there 
that is not mine ; let me have it back !” For a moment 
he seemed to hesitate , for an instant I thought he was 
about to hand it me back again : then he laughed — a 
strange, uneasy laugh — and dropped the purse into his 
pocket. 

“ Come, my man !” he exclaimed, hastily, looking 
threateningly at my silent companion, who didn’t seem 
even yet to have found his purse ; “ there’s no time to 
waste !” 

As he spoke, he leaned over till his head was inside 
the window of the coach. My companion sat up, and 
as if very reluctantly held out his purse, at which the 
robber snatched hastily. 

It all happened in a moment. As he grasped at the 
purse it was dropped and his own wrist was firmly 
grasped instead. At the same moment my companion 
drew a pistol and presented it at the head of the in- 
truder. 

“ All right, sir,” he exclaimed, in the same soft melan- 
choly voice ; “ you are my prisoner !” 

I was as much surprised as the robber himself ; so I 
only sat and stared like a fool. The robber had more 
presence of mind than I had, for he made a tremendous 
effort to release his hand. His position placed him at 
a great disadvantage, however, and he failed. 

“ Let go !” he exclaimed, angrily. 

“ I think not, sir !” 
b 


2 * 


18 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ You won’t?” 

“No, sir!” 

Whether it was intentional or not, I can’t say. I saw 
a struggle, I heard the question and the answer. Short, 
sharp, and fierce on one side, quiet, firm and hard as 
iron on the other : there was a sudden movement, a 
flash — and without a word or a groan the wrist was 
free, and my companion sank back again into his 
corner. 

For an instant the robber paused, motionless, like a 
man turned to stone. Still he stared through the open 
window ; still he held the smoking pistol pointed before 
him. Then, with a sudden movement, he drew back, — 
he turned away with a wild gesture. As he did so he 
exclaimed in a hollow voice — his own voice, no doubt, 
now, although agitated, 

“ Oh, my God !” 

Tossing out his arm he hurled the pistol from him. 
Striking spurs into his horse’s flanks, he disappeared 
from the window. 

I threw open the door and jumped out. Through 
the dense mist of snowflakes that filled the air, I saw 
him face the black horse at a high hedge now growing 
white with snow. In a moment he rose to the leap. 
In a moment the wild figure showing black against the 
white background disappeared in the storm. 

I turned hastily to the coachman, who sat as if only 
half conscious on the box. 

“Drive on!” I shouted. “Drive on for your life. 
One of the passengers is shot.” 

“ Good God !” he exclaimed, as he hastily gathered 
up the reins and grasped the whip. I leaped into the 
coach, and slammed to the door. With a sudden jerk 
the horses plunged forward. As they did so, I put out 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


19 


my hand to steady the wounded man. I drew it back 
hastily : it was useless, — the man was dead. 

There was no doubt about it. The bullet had gone 
straight through his heart, and there he sat upright in 
the corner of the coach, with the same melancholy 
look upon his face as before, but dead, quite dead. 

It was a strange, wild drive through the storm, — the 
dead Englishman, looking like life, in one corner, and 
the living Frenchman, looking like death, in the other. 
In twenty minutes we drove into Eochester. In fifty 
minutes the police had been informed, and half a dozen 
armed men on horseback were ready to start in pursuit 
of the murderer. 

“ That’s all the description you can give of him, sir ?” 
asked the sergeant, as he stood on the inn steps, his coat 
and hat growing white in the falling snow. 

“ That’s all, sergeant.” 

“And he turned off the road to the right?” 

“ Yes, to the right, over the hedge.” 

“ That will do, men. There’ll be a good reward for 
the man who takes him.” 

“ I’ll give a hundred pounds myself,” I exclaimed. 

“ Yery liberal of you, sir,” said the sergeant. “ You 
hear that, men? Now be off!” 

The men turned hastily and galloped down the street. 
In a moment they were only dim figures in the mist; 
in two they had disappeared. I glanced round me. 
The air was full of snow ; the street and the house- 
tops were white already. If I had been a Frenchman, 
I suppose I should have shrugged my shoulders. The 
track of the robber would be a hard track to follow 
that night. The hundred pounds were not likely to 
be claimed very soon. 


CHAPTEE II. 


The matter created a great stir in the city. High- 
way robbery was a crime rather out of date, for one 
thing, and this man who was shot turned out to be 
one of the most famous Bow Street runners of his 
day, for another. There was an inquest on the body, 
of course, and the jury found that he had come by his 
death by means of a bullet fired from a pistol by some 
person unknown. This was all the jury had to do, and 
the jury did it. It was no news to anybody, and it 
didn’t do anybody much good. Proclamations were 
issued; placards were posted everywhere; rewards 
were offered for the apprehension of the murderer. 
Nothing came of it. The murderer was not appre- 
hended. The Bow Street runner was dead and buried, 
my money and my partner’s ring were gone, and so 
was the man who took them. It seemed just about 
as likely that one would be found as the other. For 
months that seemed likely to be an end of the whole 
business. 

I had been robbed of just one hundred and twenty- 
five pounds, in notes of our own bank. I am a man of 
business, so I needn’t say I had taken down the num- 
bers of the notes. Having the numbers and having 
lost the notes, I needn’t mention, I should hope, that I 
posted them up in the office. 

It was on the 25th of March that old Peters came to 
my room just before closing hour. Peters had been in 
the house for fifty years, and was almost like one of 
20 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


21 


ourselves. The old man looked mysterious. Mys- 
tery is not English* so I have an objection to mystery. 

“ What’s the matter with you, Peters?” I asked him, 
sharply. 

He looked round the room cautiously, then he 
whispered, — 

“ The notes, sir !” 

“ The notes ! What notes do yotf mean ?” I said, im- 
patiently. 

“ Two twenties, sir, numbers 2683 and 2684, and one 
ten, number 9872.” 

The missing notes, at least three of them ! I looked 
at Peters : his face was beaming with excitement. I 
dare say mine was beaming, too. I forgave him his 
un-English assumption of mystery on the spot. It 
might not be English, but it certainly was natural ; I 
felt it myself, and I forgave Peters. Here was a clue 
at last. In November the snow had baffled justice and 
befriended robbery and murder, in March each of these 
numbers befriended the cause of justice and threatened 
the safety of the robber and murderer. I had begun 
to lose interest in the subject before ; the interest re- 
turned stronger than ever on the spot. 

I sent Peters for the notes, and we examined them 
carefully. They were new notes when I handed them 
to the robber, and it was evident they had not passed 
through many hands since then. There was a stain on 
one of the twenties, and a spot like grease on the corner 
of the ten. After examination, that was all we could 
make out. That was all the notes had to say for them- 
selves. They had just been sent in as exchanges for 
Glynn’s : that was all Peters could tell me about them. 
At first I thought of taking them to Bow Street, that 
the police might make inquiries. On second thoughts I 


22 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


decided otherwise. In four months the police had done 
nothing to trace the murderer ; very likely they would 
do just as little now. Bow Street had done nothing so 
far, so I determined to let Bow Street go on doing 
nothing a little longer. 

Next day I made inquiries at Glynn’s. Evidently 
this was the first step to take, and the first step proved 
to be easy enough. The notes came to Glynn’s from 
Norwich, and had been sent by a local bank to them as 
their London agents. 

My last coaching experience had not been pleasant, 
and I had vowed I would never try another. This 
was in November, and here was I, in March, eager to 
set out on another. I am English, and I pride myself 
on my consistency, which is a peculiarly English virtue ; 
but the circumstances of this case were peculiar enough 
to excuse it. So I waived my consistency and started 
for Norwich. 

If not comfortable, the journey was safe enough, and 
I reached Norwich on the 28th of March. It was not 
at all difficult to find the banker who sent the notes to 
London. It was not in the least troublesome to learn 
all he knew about them, which was little enough. The 
notes came in from a branch at Bury, and if I liked he 
would ascertain from the branch where they came 
from. I was obliged for the offer, but declined it. 
Having begun the search, I was anxious to finish it. I 
would follow the track of the notes myself ; I would 
see for myself what was to be seen at Bury. Norwich, 
although clearly the second step, was a step that did 
not take one far. 

A letter from the Norwich banker secured me the 
good offices of the branch at Bury. Now, at last, I 
felt as if I was on the track of the notes. I almost 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


23 


felt as if I was on the track of the robber. The notes 
had been paid into the bank by a customer. It was 
not the practice to name their customers, but in this 
case they would depart from their custom. The name 
of the customer was Thompson, and Thompson was a 
substantial man, and a grazier. A grazier ! I thought 
of the grease spot on the note, and I took an interest 
in Thompson at once. Next day was market day. If 
I waited I should be nearly sure to see Thompson for 
myself. I waited. Thompson was evidently the third 
step. Thompson was worth waiting for. 

From the first I somehow didn’t suspect Thompson 
of being the robber ; when I saw him I was sure he 
was not. He was every inch a grazier, and there were 
many more inches of him measured round than there 
were of the robber. Fortunately, he had a good 
memory; he remembered the notes at once, and knew 
exactly where he got them. He had sold ten fat bul- 
locks to Giles the butcher, and Giles had given him the 
notes in part payment. I showed the note with the 
greasy mark on the corner, and he said the mark was 
made by Giles’s thumb. Another step was gained, and 
that step landed me at the door of Giles’s shop. I 
knew before I saw him that he was not the robber , 
whatever the robber was, he certainly was not a butcher, 
Giles had nothing to conceal, and Giles’s memory was 
perfectly clear. He recollected the notes at once, 
and he knew where he got them. About two months 
before he had them from Malkin at the Norfolk Arms, 
in payment of a bill. Malkin was the landlord, and 
could be seen at any time within ten minutes. Giles 
was obliging and offered himself to take me to Malkin. 
A glance at the landlord told me that I had still further 
to go. Malkin was exceedingly like a landlord and not 


24 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


in the least like a gentleman ; the man I was looking 
for was exceedingly like a gentleman and not a bit like 
a landlord. 

Malkin, however, was a man I couldn’t do without. 
When I reached the innkeeper I felt I was very close 
to the robber. He was essentially English, and he was 
essentially slow. Yes, he could remember having notes 
and paying them to Giles. The notes I showed him 
might have been the notes, and they might not ; very 
likely they were the notes, for that matter. But he 
wouldn’t swear to them, and he didn’t know as it was 
any of his business to swear to them. I thought he 
was afraid that the notes had turned out to be bad, and 
I hastened to relieve his mind. The effect was less than 
I had expected. He was glad to hear the notes were 
good, and if so be they were the same notes he had 
paid to neighbor Giles, so much the better. 

I felt myself at a stand-still with Malkin. There is 
nothing more respectable than English caution ; there 
is nothing less manageable than English stupidity. I 
was not sure how much of Malkin was caution and 
how much was stupidity ; but I felt as if my schemes 
were in danger of shipwreck, owing to the combination 
of the two qualities. 

Having gone so far, however, I was bent upon going 
further ; sooner than fail I was ready to take Malkin 
into my confidence. I determined to put up at the 
Norfolk Arms ; I made up my mind to know all about 
the notes that was known to the landlord. 

I had to tell him the whole story to the end, and it 
turned out to be the right thing to do. Like most 
slow men, Malkin valued himself on saying less than 
his neighbors. Solomon has remarked how much other 
people are apt to think of the man who holds his 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


25 


tongue; he might have gone further, and remarked how 
much they usually think of their own wisdom. Malkin 
at any rate was flattered by my confidence. Until I 
told him the story his memory was painfully vague ; as 
soon as he had heard it his memory was perfect. 

“ You’re dead sure as them’s the notes,” he asked, 
taking his pipe from his lips, leaning confidentially 
across the corner of the table that separated us, and 
speaking low. I looked steadily at him and nodded. 

“ Well, then, ’twarn’t your man !” and he calmly re- 
placed his pipe once more, and looked steadily at the 
fire. 

Not my man! Here was a disappointment. I had 
made sure, from the very difficulty of taking this step, 
that it would prove important. I had somehow felt 
certain that if I could only stir up Malkin’s memory to 
activity the result would be worth the trouble. 

“Not my man? Are you quite sure?” I asked. 

“ Tall, you said, and dark, sir, didn’t you ?” And 
again he resumed his pipe, and solemnly stared me in 
the face. 

“ Yes, tall and dark, and a gentleman ; white hands, 
black hair, and very black eyes.” 

He stared at me while I spoke. He ticked off the 
various points of my description in the air with his 
pipe; then he paused meditatively: gradually a look 
of intelligence dawned in his light-blue eyes and spread 
over his face. Then he drew a long breath and slowly 
expelled the air again from his lungs in a low whistle. 

“ Well,” I said, after another pause, “ it wasn’t he ?” 

“ No. It warn’t him : it was t’other one.” 

“ Who did you say ?” I exclaimed, starting from my 
chair, and looking eagerly into his stolid face, which 
had settled into a pleased look of self-appreciation. 
b 3 


26 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ T’other one,” he repeated. “ T’other one.” 

“ He was here, then ?” 

“Well, yes, he was here, off and on like, off and on.” 

It was not an easy matter to extract information 
from Malkin, even when he was most willing to give 
it. It took a long time to do it now, and it was not 
done all at once. In the end, however, I believe I did 
learn all he had to tell : when it was put together it 
came to this : 

Three gentlemen had stayed at the inn in November 
and December of the year before. They were rather 
sporting men, and they kept horses. One of them 
must have been a soldier, for the others called him 
major. It was from the major that the landlord had 
received the notes. They played cards a great deal, 
and they drank a great deal of wine, but they were 
pleasant, free-spoken gentlemen enough. A fourth one 
used to come there sometimes. He was younger than 
the others ; a great deal younger than the major. When 
he was there they played more cards and drank more 
wine than usual. He was a tall young man, with black 
curly hair, and very black flashing eyes, and very much 
the gentleman. The landlord never got any money 
from him. He came to see the major, and his bill was 
always charged to the major. The major’s name was 
Fowler, at least that was the name on his trunk in 
plain letters. The name of the young man was Jenkins, 
and the place where he lived was Holby Lodge, near 
Bristol. Malkin knew this, because he had told him so 
in case any letters should come for him, that he might 
forward them. No letters had come, and nothing had 
been forwarded. He would certainly know the young 
man again if he saw him, because he was not a common 
looking person. 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


27 


Boiled down, this was all that Malkin knew of the 
matter. He was not sure of dates. He knew that the 
major had left before Christmas, but he thought Mr. 
Jenkins had left some weeks before. He got the notes 
from the major when he left, and it was a mercy the 
notes turned out good. Malkin was deeply interested 
in the story now, but nothing could really equal the 
interest he evidently felt in the undisputed genuineness 
of the notes. 

So far, then, as the notes went, this was the whole. 
So far as the money was concerned, the track ended 
here. There was nothing more to be done in Norfolk ; 
and in the end of March Norfolk isn’t worth staying 
in for its own sake. I broke my resolution again:. I 
made another coach journey to town. Should I go to 
Bristol and look after Mr. Jenkins? This was the 
question that occupied my mind during the journey. 
I had already taken a great deal of trouble, and spent 
a good deal of time : was it worth while to take a great 
deal more trouble, and spend nobody could guess how 
much more time ? If I went to Bristol, for what was 
I to go ? If I met Mr. Jenkins of Holby Lodge, what 
was I to say ? It was no easy matter to answer such 
questions satisfactorily to myself, but it was more diffi- 
cult still to decide upon giving the matter up. Every 
step I had taken had made me more anxious to take 
another. Each discovery I had made had made others 
appear at once more easy and more desirable. I could 
not abandon the inquiry now. I could not rest content 
with a mystery where, perhaps, it might be a mystery 
easily solved. I decided to go to Bristol. I determined, 
if possible, to see Holby Lodge for myself. I made up 
my mind that I would have a look at Mr. Jenkins with 
my own eyes. 


28 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


The next question was, should I go alone? So far I 
had managed matters for myself, and so far I had man- 
aged them successfully. I had traced the notes through 
various hands, and I had decided in my own mind the 
hands that had originally taken them. Why not do 
the rest myself? Why not go on as I had begun? 
There was much to be said on the other side, and in 
the end the other side persuaded me. I decided to take 
the police into my confidence, to consult the experience 
of Bow Street in unravelling the mystery. 

The commissioner of police was civil. I didn’t think 
he was best pleased that I had done so much without 
him. I have more than a suspicion that he thought 
he would have done it a good deal better without my 
assistance. Perhaps he was right : at any rate it was 
natural he should be of that opinion. He agreed with 
me that Holby Lodge was the place at which to make 
the next inquiries, and that Mr. Jenkins was the next 
person to see. An experienced officer was directed to 
accompany me to Bristol, while the commissioner him- 
self undertook to find Major Fowler, and discover all 
that he knew about the notes. 

Mr. Roberts might have been an experienced officer ; 
he certainly was not an interesting companion. We 
travelled from London to Bristol together by coach 
(another instance of inconsistency, once more excused 
by circumstances), and I cannot say I remember his 
making a single remark on the journey. I didn’t mind 
that at all, if he were only efficient ; I did object to it 
if he were only sulky. In the end I abandoned the 
idea of Mr. Roberts’s efficiency, and finally adopted the 
opinion that he was sulky. 

We were six days in Bristol without once hearing of 
Holby Lodge, and we might have been there still with 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


29 


the same result for anything Eoberts did to prevent it. 
His one idea was to employ the police, and the only 
result was that the police had never heard of such a 
place, and therefore no such place existed. So far as I 
could see, Mr. Eoberts took very little trouble beyond 
asking the police, and the police excelled Mr. Eoberts 
by taking no trouble at all. The post-office people had 
never heard of the place. I knew this, for I had in- 
quired myself, and neither letters nor anything else 
ever were addressed to anybody named Jenkins at any 
place called Ilolby Lodge. Eoberts was satisfied there 
was no such place, and wanted to go back. I was not 
satisfied, and had made up my mind to stay till I found 
it. I told Eoberts he had better go back, and perhaps 
for that very reason he only looked sulky and stayed. 

1 found Holby Lodge after all myself, and I found it 
by accident. I had made up my mind to find the place, 
and I set to work in earnest to do it. I hired a gig and 
a driver, and visited every place I could hear of within 
half a dozen miles of Bristol, and yet I didn’t hear of 
such a place. Then I went further. It was the fifth 
day and I was growing tired of it. If it hadn’t been 
for Eoberts, I believe I should have given it up before. 
Every time I saw his sulky face, it declared that I 
would never find Holby House. Every time I saw him 
I need hardly say I was more determined to find it 
than before. On the fifth day, as we were coming 
home, we stopped at a village inn for a glass of ale. 
The landlord brought it out himself, and by way of 
complimenting him on the brew, I held up the glass to 
look through it. As 1 did so my eye caught sight of 
a distant church tower among the trees. I paused to 
look again. 

“ What church is that over there, landlord ?” I asked. 

3 * 


30 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“Over theer?” he replied, slowly turning round to 
follow where my finger pointed. “ Why, thaat be Holby 
Choorch. Zure enough, zur. Doan’t ee knaw Holby 
Choorch ?” 

And the inn-keeper stared thoughtfully at me, as 
if I had been an exceptional specimen of lamentable 
ignorance. 

“ I suppose there’s a village ?” I remarked, staring 
at the distant tower as one does at anything one has 
looked for till he has given up expecting to see it. 

“ Tillage? Yes, theer’s a village, but not to zay 
mooch of one, after all.” 

“ Isn’t there a hall, or a squire’s house, or something 
of the sort there ?” I asked, much excited. 

“ Cann’t zay as theer bee. Plaace ain’t no good 
since old house wor shoot oop, and thaat’s — whoy, 
thaat must be noy on twenty years agone.” 

“ There was an old house at Holby, then ?” I asked. 

“To be zure theer war — years agone theer war — 
years agone.” 

After some trouble I discovered the road to Holby 
village. After a good deal more trouble I managed to 
get there over the worst road in the county. The sur- 
prise of the decaying village at the unaccustomed sight 
of a gig was almost as great as that of the landlord of 
the poor little village ale-house, at my inquiry who 
lived up at the great house. 

“ Noo one lived theer naow,” was the reply, given 
with a melancholy shake of the head, indicating appar- 
ently how serious the fact was to the village in general 
and to the ale-house in particular. 

“ Who used to live there, then ?” I persisted. 

“Whoy, auld Squoire Jenkins, to be zure.” 

“ And where is he now ?” 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


31 


“ Doan’t knaw ! Hur be dead and goan these twenty- 
years .” 

“ And the house, who owns it now ?” 

“ Doan’t knaw. They do zay hur be in Chaancery.” 

It looked like it. I drove past the gates, that had 
once been stately, and now hung rusting on their hinges. 
I could see what had once been a drive, now a thicket 
of weeds, leading up to the front of a fine old house, 
falling like the gates to decay. No Mr. Jenkins lived 
there now; no clue could be followed through the 
tangled wilderness of Holby Lodge. 

I had followed my clue to the end. The track of 
the robber had ended in a snow-drift ; the track left 
by the notes had ended in the wilderness of a chancery 
suit. 

I gave it up. It was no use disguising the fact of my 
disappointment, so I went back to Bristol and told 
Roberts. He said it was a pity, but I don’t believe he 
thought so. As an official, he objected to unofficial 
interference. As a Bow Street runner, he objected to 
unprofessional detectives. He satisfied himself by see- 
ing Holby Lodge, and then we both went back to town 
once more. Our journey had been a failure ; our clue, 
that seemed so good, had led us to nothing. I went 
back to my work at the bank. Mentally I called my- 
self a fool for ever leaving it. 

A few days later the commissioner called on me. He 
came to inspect the notes, and tell me what he had 
learned about the major. He saw the notes, of course, 
but he had not succeeded in seeing the major. He had 
ascertained that no such major existed in the British 
army, and he more than hinted that I had been in 
some way the victim of a hoax. 

It was now the 16th of April, and I had wasted three 


32 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


weeks of valuable time on a wild-goose chase. I was 
heartily sick of the whole affair, and I told the com- 
missioner as much. If the police could do any more, 
they were very welcome to do it. If the ends of jus- 
tice demanded further exertions, the police were wel- 
come to make them. I washed my hands then and 
there of the whole business. I went back then and 
there to my own work once more. I am far from cer- 
tain now that I wasn’t right. 


CHAPTER III. 


The police didn’t do any more. If the ends of jus- 
tice demanded sacrifices from the police, the ends of 
justice must have been disappointed. Months passed 
away and no more was done. There is an old saying 
that “ Murder will out,” and the police religiously be- 
lieve in it. If murder will out, it would be a pity to 
interfere with the process. If Providence takes these 
matters in hand, the police have no mind to set up as 
rivals to Providence. Perhaps they are right. So far 
as I have observed, the attempt would meet with very 
little success. 

I washed my hands of the whole business in April, 
and thought I had done with it. I was mistaken. I 
didn’t throw myself in the way of it again; it threw 
itself in mine. To tell the truth, I felt ashamed of my 
detective experience, and did my best to forget it. I 
was not so successful as I could have wished in this, 
but I made some progress. 

During all the summer months I stuck closely to 
work at the bank, and it was only now and then that 
the one terrible memory of my uneventful life came 
between me and my work. Try as hard as I might, I 
couldn’t always banish the melancholy face of the dead 
Bow Street runner. Give myself as earnestly to my 
work as I chose, still the black eyes of the robber and 
the visionary face which my fancy had fitted to the 
eyes would come at times between me and the figures. 

Still I was getting rid of it. The summer months 
c 33 


34 


THE TEACK OF A STOKM 


had succeeded to spring, and the months of autumn 
had in their turn supplanted the summer. Already 
the trees in the Park — the only trees a man need wish 
to see — had grown from green to gold, and the gold 
was fast fading into brown. It was late in October, 
and a year would very soon have passed since my coach 
journey from Dover. I believe this very thought 
passed through my mind as I strolled into the Park 
that Saturday afternoon for my usual walk. I had just 
turned in at the gates, and I suppose it was the sight 
of the trees growing brown, and the autumn feeling in 
the wind that brought it to my mind. After all, it did 
seem a shame that the mystery should remain forever 
a mystery. One always stands still to be indignant, — 
at least I always do. I stood still now. My thoughts 
were not complimentary to the police force. After all, 
the police were none of my business. I shook my 
head to get rid of the feeling, and resolutely walked 
on. 

The'trees had something to do with the feeling. I 
looked away from the trees. The wind, just burdened 
with the soft, regretful sigh of autumn, was partly 
responsible. I looked about for something to divert my 
attention from the wind. 

Two gentlemen were walking in front of me. Like 
myself, they seemed to have come for a stroll ; like my- 
self, they appeared to have no special business. As I 
had determined not to look at the trees or listen to the 
wind, I amused myself idly by looking at them. They 
were both young. I like young men, as a rule. At 
first sight I was disposed to like these two ; of course, 
I could only see their backs, but their backs were the 
backs of gentlemen. Don’t tell me that backs have no 
expression. I haven’t walked London streets for five 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


35 


and forty years without knowing better than that. 
These young men’s backs were the backs of gentlemen. 
One of them had a dog. He was a handsome retriever, 
black as a sloe, and he followed close at his master’s 
heels. There is a good deal in the way a dog follows 
his master. Dogs are nearly always faithful, but they 
are not always confidential. It’s a good sign of a man 
when his dog is confidential. This dog kept close to 
his master ; he was accustomed to nothing but kind- 
ness. 

After a time they stopped; I stopped, too, as I had 
no wish to pass them. Once more I let my eyes wander 
to the golden-brown trees. Once more I listened for a 
few seconds to the gentle sighing of the mellow autumn 
wind. They had been talking, and now they were 
parting. I didn’t look at them exactly, but I could see 
as much as that. They stood face to face and shook 
hands. I like to see men shake hands. I’ve often 
seen Frenchmen embracing each other, bah! — well, 
perhaps for a Frenchman it doesn’t matter much, but 
give me an English shake of the hand. It is straight- 
forward and manly. You look a man in the face while 
you do it, and you don’t grin over his left shoulder. 
You can read in a man’s eyes whether he means it or 
not. These two shook hands heartily enough. I was 
pretty close to them and I heard their last words. 

“ You won’t go, then ?” 

“ Hot this time. The burnt child, you know.” 

“Bother the burnt child, Charlie. That’s all non- 
sense.” 

“ Oh, come now ; it’s all right. Money, too, they 
say.” 

“Likely enough. Another objection, I should say.” 

What was it in the voice that attracted me ? Wh^t 


THE TEACK OF A STOEM 


was it that made my heart beat and my blood move 
quickly at the sound? What was it that drew me, 
almost against my will, a few feet nearer to the speak- 
ers ? I couldn’t tell at the moment, but I was conscious 
of the excitement. I knew that the blood was flush- 
ing my cheek. I knew that I was eager to hear that 
voice again. I knew as much as this, yet this was all 
I knew. 

The young man who was addressed laughed gaily. 

“ Another of your absurdities, Charlie, as usual. 
Always fanciful and Quixotic. So you really object to 
the cash ?” 

“ Yes, that’s it, exactly. I really object to the cash.” 

I turned round quickly at that word. I was rude 
enough to stare openly at the speaker who had used it. 
He was half turned from me as he laughingly said good- 
bye to his friend. He didn’t notice me at all as I 
stood and stared at him. How I knew what had at- 
tracted my attention when he spoke at first. That 
word “cash,” pronounced in that clear, strong, half- 
scornful voice — I had heard it before. In an instant, 
as if revealed by a flash of lightning, it rose before me 
— the coach, the passengers, the open window, the still 
but threatening figure holding the pistol in his hand. 
The dull afternoon light was round him again ; the 
dismal drifting of the snow-flakes was behind him. In 
an instant I saw it all once more, and the very tone of 
his voice rang again in my ear as he uttered the words, 
“ Gentlemen, the cash, if you please 1” Was it, could 
it be the same ? 

What is there in a tone, after all ? But, then, what 
is there in any human peculiarity? Men have similar 
tones of voice. They have also similar eyes, noses, 
figures. There is nothing in the world, I suppose, 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


37 


without its duplicate; but which of us thinks of that 
when startled by a resemblance ? The tone of that 
voice startled me. Unconsciously it convinced me, 
made me sure that I had the robber before me. I 
stared at him. I seemed unable to take my eyes off 
his tall, slight, yet powerful and active figure. After a 
moment’s pause, he sauntered slowly on. After a similar 
pause, I sauntered slowly after him. The figure had 
fascinated me. I forgot all about my disappointing 
experience of detective work. I forgot all about my 
resolution to think no more of the matter. For the 
moment I was an enthusiastic detective. I could think 
of absolutely nothing else. 

The young man sauntered towards a seat, and I 
sauntered after him. He appeared wholly unconscious 
of my presence. I was utterly unconscious of any- 
thing but his. As he walked on, I was almost mechan- 
ically engaged in examining his person. I was taking 
note of his tall figure, with its easy if rather indolent 
gait, and its striking appearance of combined lightness 
and strength. The same qualities had struck me in 
the highwayman, and as I looked they came back to 
my memory with the force of conviction. Suddenly I 
thought of the hair. That of the robber was black and 
curly, it was also rather long. The figure before me had 
black hair also, yes, and it too was curly, but it was not 
long. That was nothing ; a peculiarity which the fancy 
of a minute could remove ; a mark to be obliterated by 
the scissors of the first barber he might visit. Ho ; this 
was the same jet-black, glossy hair, showing below the 
fashionable hat. There were the remains of the same 
curls, now cut short, around the firm strong neck, and 
round the back of the well-shaped and haughtily- 
carried head. 


4 


38 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


Now he turned slightly to one side. I absolutely 
started ; I almost uttered my surprise aloud. It was 
the very ear, — small, delicate, pink in color, and curled 
like a shell : it showed like a lady’s ear. It was all 
the more remarkable and unmistakable because the short 
hair exposed it fully to view. The discovery hardly 
surprised, but for the moment it seemed to paralyze 
me. I had expected to find him the same, yet some- 
how this small confirmation came upon me like a shock. 
I stood still to recover myself. I paused to think what 
I should do next. 

Evidently he had not noticed me yet. What would 
he do when he saw me? How would he act when we 
were once more face to face ? That he would fail to 
recognize me was, of course, out of the question. If I 
could recall him by such peculiarities as I could gather, 
who had never seen his face, it was impossible to doubt 
that one glance of mine, seen under circumstances so 
terrible, would bring the whole scene before him. He 
could not attack me here, I knew : I glanced round 
and observed a policeman at a little distance, moving 
slowly along with the solemn importance of his kind. 
No, he could scarcely attack me here. Would he try 
to escape ? He might do that ; why not ? Once moro 
I glanced at the policeman. This time I saw that he 
was coming towards us. 

Meanwhile the young man had reached a seat, and 
carelessly thrown himself upon it. His dog crouched 
before him, and eyed him solemnly with the great soft 
eyes of dog affection. 

I had not yet made up my mind what to do; but 
there could be no harm in going nearer. I strolled 
slowly towards the tree at the foot of which he had 
taken his seat. Still he did not look up. Still he gave 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


39 


no sign that he saw me coming. I came nearer. My 
heart beat quickly as I thought of the shock I was 
about to give him, and wondered how he would take it. 
I longed and yet dreaded to come face to face again 
with this man. 

His head was bent down as he leaned it on his hand. 
His eyes were fixed, gloomily as I thought, upon the 
ground. What was he thinking of? Had he really no 
presentiment that detection was close at hand ? Sud- 
denly the dog seemed to comprehend that his master 
was disturbed. He looked up at him with great 
dreamy eyes full of sympathy. He wagged his tail 
slowly; he sat up. Still his master took no notice. 
He wriggled himself, sitting upon his tail, a little 
nearer. Then solemnly he lifted a paw and presented 
it to be shaken. Ho notice was taken of the offer. 
He gave a plaintive and impatient whine, and offered 
it again. This time his master noticed, — he looked into 
the bright, faithful, anxious eyes, and he was touched. 
He dropped the cane he still held, and hastily reached 
out his right hand to take the offered paw. 

“Poor fellow, Carlo I” he said. “Good dog! what 
is it?” 

As he stretched out his hand the last link was sup- 
plied. Till that moment I hadn’t thought of it ; it had 
utterly escaped my memory. His hasty movement had 
drawn back the sleeve of his coat. There, on the 
wrist, was the strange blue scar; there, branded on his 
white flesh was the certain evidence of his identity. 
I had not really doubted before; I didn’t doubt in the 
least now. There, sitting at his ease before me, caress- 
ing his dog with his long, white, yet muscular fingers, 
looking into his eyes with his own flashing black eyes, 
was the very man I had last seen as he disappeared 


40 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


with that wild despairing gesture into the bewildering 
mist of the November snow-storm. 

I don’t often act on impulse, but I acted on impulse 
then. I didn’t think, I didn’t stop to think. I stepped 
forward and spoke. 

“ Pardon me, sir,” I said, then paused that he might 
see me. He looked up at me from the dog. Yes, they 
were the same eyes I had seen once before, only they 
were quiet now, almost melancholy. They looked at 
me with a quiet surprise. Could it be possible ? Did 
this man really fail to remember? The look embar- 
rassed me, I confess. I had no doubt when I spoke, I 
had not a doubt now as to the identity of this man. 
Yet, for the moment, he had the advantage of me. He 
said nothing; his manner disclosed nothing; he was 
simply attentive. He was merely courteously disposed 
to listen. I confess I was taken aback. I had been pre- 
pared for flight ; I had almost been prepared for vio- 
lence ; what I was not prepared for was condescending 
attention, courteous indifference. Englishmen, as a 
rule, resent indifference when it is shown to themselves. 
Need I remark that I resented this man’s indifference ? 
Probably not. Why, a Frenchman might have resented 
it, and I should hardly have found fault with him for 
doing so. I certainly did so ; I felt my blood grow hot ; 
I felt it rush upwards to my face. I felt myself grow- 
ing red, and I didn’t feel that it improved my temper. 
I took a step forward ; I hesitated no longer. 

“ Mr. Jenkins, I believe !” I said, in a tone as marked 
as I could throw into the words. I could see him give 
a slight start at the name. A slight flush began to 
show itself in his cheeks. The expression of his eyes 
changed to one of watchfulness. He rose slowly from 
the seat. 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


41 


“ Jenkins !” he said. “Well, sir, and if so, in what 
way can I serve you ?” 

“ Of Holby Lodge near Bristol ?” I added, looking 
him straight in the face. 

I could see a troubled look in his eyes. The flush 
gradually faded from his cheeks, which it left pale. I 
was sure of my man now. His effrontery only made 
me angry. 

“At your service, sir,” he replied, quietly. “And 
what then ?” 

His tone was perfectly self-possessed ; it was so quiet 
that it seemed almost contemptuous. If anything is 
more exasperating than indifference, it is contempt. 
You will not feel surprised to hear that I was exas- 
perated. 

“Then” — I spoke slowly on purpose, and I looked 
him straight in the face as I did so — “then, Mr. 
Jenkins, perhaps you will kindly return me the 
diamond ring you robbed me of on the 19th of last 
November!” 

He started back. For a moment his eyes literally 
blazed on me, his fingers closed convulsively on his 
cane as if he would have struck me. It was but for an 
instant, then a strange look succeeded, a look of horror 
and of fear, a look that made me shudder in spite of 
the very natural indignation which I felt. 

For several seconds we stood thus face to face. What 
passed in his mind I cannot even guess. What passed 
in my own was a mixed feeling in which, in spite of all, 
pity had some share. Then he spoke. His voice was 
low and clear. It was not the voice I should have ex- 
pected. Looking back at it now, it was not the voice 
I should have looked for in a guilty man. 

“ There is some strange mistake here, sir,” he said. 
** 


42 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ If you have lost anything you are under some extra- 
ordinary delusion as to the robber.” 

I was angry again. I think I may say I was nat- 
urally angry again. This calm tone was a little too 
much. 

“ I am under no delusion, sir. On the 19th of last 
November, I was robbed of one hundred and twenty- 
five pounds and a diamond ring, by a highwayman who 
stopped the Dover coach. I lost my ring, sir, and I 
lost my money. Another, less fortunate than I, lost 
his life!” 

As I spoke he grew very pale. The strange look in 
his eyes grew stranger still. It was as if he saw some- 
thing frightful coming near, as if he watched some 
horrible phantom as it approached him. I could see 
that he was greatly agitated: but I could also see that 
he didn’t lose command of himself for one moment. 
It was in the same clear, steady tone that he spoke again. 

“ You were robbed, you say ; but, excuse me, why do 
you connect me with the robbery ?” 

His effrontery amazed, but it also exasperated me. 
I was indignant. I raised my voice unconsciously. 

“Because, sir, the robber was Mr. Jenkins of Holby 
Lodge, because he had my money, which he spent, 
and my ring which he refused to return. Because Mr. 
Jenkins committed a foul murder on the 19th of last 
November And because I recognize you as Mr. 
Jenkins, and charge you with the robbery and the 
murder !” 

He heard me to the last word. He looked me 
straight in the face to the end. Though his own face 
grew more and more ghastly as I went on, he never 
looked away, he never flinched. Then he exclaimed, — 

“ Oh, my God !” 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


43 


The tone of his voice was quiet still, but it was more 
full of agony than any tone I ever heard before or 
since. At the moment I felt like a murderer myself. 
I would gladly have recalled the fatal words. It was 
already too late. 

“ Sir !” It was the sharp formal voice of the police- 
man which spoke. “ You charge this person with rob- 
bery and murder, I understand ?” 

He glanced hesitatingly from one to the other of us, 
as if in doubt which was the true man and which the 
robber. His question brought me to myself. His look 
restored my self-possession. 

“ I do,” I said, shortly, “ of highway robbery on the 
19th of last November, and of murder at the time of 
the robbery.” 

“ Nineteenth November,” he repeated, slowly. “ Why, 
that was Trotter’s business.” For a moment the offi- 
cial’s eyes glanced doubtfully at me, and hesitatingly 
on my companion. 

“ Well, it’s a queer start this ; but there’s no help for 
it. You’ll have to come along with me, sir.” He spoke 
as if half reluctant, yet compelled to give some title 
of respect to the man who stood accused of two such 
crimes, and now faced us both with such a calm ex- 
pression. 

“I am quite ready to go with you if you like,” ho 
said, “ but where to ?” 

In those few seconds the excitement had died out of 
his eyes. He was the most self-possessed of us three. 

“ To Bow Street first. You needn’t say anything, 
you know, but if you do, it may be used against you by 
and by,” said the policeman, mechanically, looking very 
hard at the accused, as if he would give a good deal to 
hear him disregard the warning. 


44 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ Thank you. I have no wish to say anything at 
present. The mistake which this gentleman has made 
cannot be rectified here. Shall we be going ?” 

In spite of ourselves the man influenced us even 
now : he appeared to take us in charge rather than we 
him. 

The policeman looked at him more hesitatingly 
still, — 

“ You will go quietly, sir?” he asked. 

“ Certainly, why not ?” His tone was easy and nat- 
ural. There was almost a smile on his dark, handsome 
face. I had never seen a man like this before. I had 
never been so thoroughly puzzled in my life. 

We did as he suggested, the policeman and I. One 
on each side of him, we walked slowly out of the Park ; 
one on each side of him, we got into a cab, and accom- 
panied him to Bow Street. 


CHAPTER I Y. 


He gave the name of John Jenkins at Bow Street, 
and from first to last he gave no other name. Do I 
believe that John Jenkins was his name? you may 
ask. I can only answer, I do not. This young man 
was no common man ; was no ordinary criminal. He 
was, if possible, cooler when we reached Bow Street. 
He was coolest of all when the preliminary examina- 
tion took place. If I hadn’t seen the man’s ears for 
myself, I wouldn’t have dreamt of his being the robber. 
If I hadn’t seen that scar on his wrist, I daren’t have 
sworn to him. 

Even as it was, I felt uneasy. If this man — he 
called himself Jenkins, so I suppose I may call him 
Jenkins, too, without offence — if Jenkins had known 
the uneasy feeling in my mind, he couldn't have 
managed better. It was on this one thing that he 
harped all the time. It was on this one possibility of 
the likeness of two men that he depended. If he 
hadn’t answered to the name of Jenkins when I spoke, 
if he hadn’t started when I named Ilolby Lodge, I 
might have been doubtful. It was everything taken 
together that made me certain. It was the man him- 
self joined with the name of the place that convinced 
me. Surely, after all, I could not have been wrong! 

At any rate it wasn’t I alone who did it — that is one 
comfort. The police had done little enough before, 
but they were all activity now. Once tell him what 
to do and where to go, and your London policeman, at 

45 


46 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


all events, will do anything, and go anywhere. It is 
when you ask him for brains that you are disappointed. 
In this case the business was straightforward ; there- 
fore, it was done at once. The Frenchman was tracked 
and produced in a very short time. The banker, the 
grazier, the butcher, and the inn-keeper, every one of 
them was discovered and produced. The coachman 
and the guard were, of course, in attendance at the 
trial, and gave their evidence. You may think it 
strange that when all these concurred in the conviction 
of Jenkins, I should feel responsible. Your wonder 
only shows two things : you don’t know me, first, and 
you don’t know the facts, second. After all, it was my 
doing. Don’t tell me there was the Frenchman I Of 
course there was the Frenchman, but his evidence, I 
should hope, would not go far with an English jury. 
Then there were the coachman and the guard, and all 
they knew about it might just as well have hanged 
the judge as the prisoner. The man was safe enough 
but for my evidence. He might be strolling in the 
Park now but for the goodness of my memory. Am 
I sorry ? Hot a bit of it. If Jenkins was the man 
(though he was no more Jenkins than I was), he de- 
served all and more than all he got. If he was not the 
man, — well, if he wasn’t, it’s no use having eyes and 
ears in this world. Still, I wish it had been some one 
else who had had the eyes and ears. I should feel 
more comfortable now if it hadn’t been me. 

Jenkins was tried at the Old Bailey just three weeks 
after I recognized him. Curiously enough, it was just 
a year to the very day from the time of the robbery 
that the trial took place. Jenkins had no lawyer; he 
said he preferred defending himself, and he did it. If 
he hadn’t been a highwayman he would have made a 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


47 


capital lawyer. I never was at a criminal trial before, 
and I hope I never shall be again. Of course, English 
justice is the very best kind of justice going, but I didn’t 
think so very much of English justice, after all. I don’t 
think Jenkins had altogether fair play. It wasn’t the 
judge that was to blame, and it wasn’t the jury. So 
far as I could see, the judge did nothing but take notes, 
and the jury did nothing at all. It was the witnesses 
that were hardly fair to Jenkins. I don’t believe in 
that Frenchman, to begin with. He actually swore to 
remembering the highwayman’s eyes, when I can re- 
member very well that his own eyes were all but start- 
ing from his head with fright the whole time. He 
recognized the scar on his wrist. If the scar had been 
as big as his head, I don’t believe he’d have seen it that 
afternoon. Perhaps, after all, it didn’t matter much. 
He was only a Frenchman at best, and the jury knew it. 

Then the coachman and the guard ! It’s true they 
didn’t profess to be very sure, but all they did say was 
dead against Jenkins. And what do you suppose they 
knew about it? Nothing whatever; upon my soul, 
nothing whatever I But, after all, it was old Malkin 
who settled it. Malkin swore to Jenkins directly he 
saw him. He didn’t know anything about the robbery, 
and he didn’t say Jenkins knew anything about the 
money; but he swore to Jenkins himself, and he swore 
to the notes. It was this that convicted him, after 
all. It was Malkin that put the rope round Jenkins’s 
neck. 

I was in court all the time and heard it all. When 
I heard Malkin swear to him I hadn’t the least doubt; 
and yet when I looked at the man who called himself 
Jenkins I was puzzled. What was it that puzzled me, 
I wonder? What was it that to the last made me 


48 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


watch the face of the man as he stood m the dock ? It 
might have been his coolness that did it. From first 
to last the man was cool. 

When he was first brought in he glanced round the 
court, and I thought he was nervous; when he had 
finished looking round there wasn’t a trace of anxiety 
on his face. He was cool when he cross-examined the 
witnesses. He was cool when he addressed the jury, 
— he was even cool when they brought in the verdict 
of guilty, — much more cool, it struck me, than the jury 
themselves. And his cool, steady look never changed 
as the judge pronounced sentence. Looking back on 
it now, his coolness seemed supernatural. Thinking 
of his face, it looks to me like a human face turned to 
stone. 

The papers were full of the trial the next day, and 
so far as I remember, only two of them doubted the 
justice of the verdict. Yet somehow the sentence was 
commuted to transportation for life. At the time I 
thought this wrong. I was clear that the man was 
both robber and murderer, and somehow the reprieve 
seemed to me to imply a doubt of my evidence. Well, 
well, we are all apt to be a little conceited ; we all put 
a high value on our own opinions. Why he was re- 
prieved, I don’t know ; I only know that he was. I 
have heard nothing about Jenkins since then. Whether 
that doctor of mine is right or wrong, it is hardly 
likely I shall ever hear of Jenkins again. 

I needn’t tell you that that isn’t all the story. If it 
had been all, I shouldn’t have written it down, I should 
have risked the doctor being right. I should have 
taken my chance of the story dying along with me. 
It was not all. 

When the trial was over, there was an end of it. If 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


49 


the sentence had been carried out there would have 
been an end of Jenkins ; as he was transported, one 
might have expected it to be pretty nearly the same 
thing. I had sent him a message asking what had 
become of the ring, and had got his answer, that my 
question was an insult to a gentleman. To the last, 
you see, he was cool ; he would admit nothing. The 
ring was a diamond ring of French make, but of no 
very extraordinary value. I made up my mind, and 
my partner had to make up his, that the ring was 
finally lost. I made up my mind to wash my hands 
of Jenkins. As a man of business I knew the im- 
portance of making up one’s mind. I dismissed the 
ring from my thoughts ; I washed my hands finally 
of Jenkins. 

Was I unreasonable in supposing this to be an end 
of the business ? I think not ; and yet I was mis- 
taken. 

It was on the fifteenth of this month, about two in 
the afternoon, that Peters tapped hastily at my door. 
Of course I said 1 Come in !’ but the old man didn't. 
Instead of that he put his head in at the door, and 
looked at me for an instant without speaking. Some- 
thing in his face startled me, and I said, “Well, Peters, 
what is it?” 

“Would you mind coming here, sir?” he said, “ and 
looking at this check ?” 

“ Is anything the matter?” I said, rising at once. 

“ I don’t know, but I wish you’d look at it, sir, and 
at the man, too,” he added, m a low tone. 

“ Why ?” I asked. “ What do you mean ?” 

By this time I was beside the old man. “ What is 
it, Peters! You’re positively trembling; what’s tho 
matter ?” 
c d 


5 


50 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ He’s like Jenkins !” said the old man, sinking his 
voice to a mysterious whisper. 

“ Confound Jenkins !” I exclaimed. “ Are we never 
to hear the last of that scoundrel ?” 

I had a great mind to turn back, but somehow I 
didn’t do it. The old man’s excitement had, I suppose, 
affected me too. I followed him into the outer office, 
but it was under protest. I once more let the subject 
of Jenkins enter my mind, but it was with the firm 
resolve that it should be the last time. 

Peters silently handed me a check when I came out ; 
it was Lord Lowestoft’s check, and appeared to be all 
right. 

“ Well,” I said, in a whisper, “this is all right. What 
is the matter ?” 

“ Look at him, sir,” said Peters, in the same tone, in- 
dicating the counter with his finger. “ Only look at 
him, sir. That’s what I wanted you for.” 

I took two steps, and commanded a view of the 
counter. I started! He stood carelessly leaning 
against the counter, his face turned partly away as he 
looked through the door into the street. He was tall 
and dark, with black hair, curly, and worn long. From 
below it, as he stood, part of his right ear showed 
plainly. It was small, slightly pink in color, and ex- 
quisitely delicate in shape. For a moment I stared at 
him almost stupidly. The feeling of cold surprise 
that had seized me had the mastery. Then I turned 
away. 

“ Give me the check,” I whispered to Peters. With 
a curious look upon his face the old man handed it to 
me without a word. “ Lowestoft” was the name at the 
bottom, and the amount was five hundred pounds. The 
check was regular, there was an ample balance to his 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


51 


lordship’s credit. In the ordinary course the check 
should have been paid at once. I stepped to the counter. 
The owner of the check turned and faced me. For a 
moment I thought he hesitated. For a single instant 
I saw, or fancied I saw, his dark cheek grow a shade 
paler. If it did so it passed as quickly, and he looked 
me steadily in the face. Was I wrong in thinking that 
gaze a little too steady? Was it only fancy that made 
me see in it disinclination suppressed by force of will? 
I don’t know about that, but I do know that it was 
some moments before I could have spoken to him. It 
was Jenkins himself who stood before me. The same 
features, the same flashing black eyes, only not so calm ; 
the same hair, only longer and more curly. To crown 
all, it was the same voice that now spoke in a quiet but 
rather supercilious tone : 

‘‘May I ask you to make haste? I am rather 
hurried.” 

With an effort I recovered myself. I looked steadily 
at him, and replied, — 

“ This is your check, sir, I understand.” 

“ Lord Lowestoft’s ?” he asked, impatiently glancing 
at it. “ Yes, it is mine. Will you kindly get it cashed ?” 

“Certainly. Will you kindly endorse it?” And I 
pushed it towards him across the counter, as I spoke. 

“ Endorse it ?” he repeated, angrily. “ What do you 
mean ? Why should I endorse it ?” 

“ It is merely as a form, sir, that we wish you to do 
so. The amount is a large one, and it is a custom of 
ours in such cases.” 

He looked at me as I spoke. I had seen that look 
before from just such a pair of black eyes as looked at 
me now. 

“ Ho, sir !” he replied, fiercely. “ I will not endorse 


52 


THE TRACK OF A STORH 


it. Do I understand that you refuse to pay it with- 
out ?” 

Till that moment I had never thought of such a 
thing. Till he spoke my only object had been the 
vague one of seeing and hearing him speak, so as, if 
possible, to set at rest the wild doubt that would not 
be shaken off. It was the tone of his voice that decided 
me. I spoke calmly, I believe, but very decidedly. 

“Yes,” I said, “you may understand that. The re- 
quest may be unusual, sir, but the refusal is much more 
uncommon. We are prepared to pay the check, but — 
excuse me, sir — you are an entire stranger to us.” 

“ As you please. I will inform Lowestoft of your 
reply. You can arrange it with him.” 

As he spoke he reached out his hand for the check ; he 
exposed the wrist. There, yes, there, just where I had 
seen it on Jenkins’s wrist, was the blue scar. He thrust 
the check angrily into his pocket; without another word 
he turned away from the counter and left the bank. 

For a few seconds I stood looking after him, then I 
turned hastily and went back to my room. I wanted 
to think what it all meant, and to be alone while I did 
it. I can’t say that I found thinking of much use. 
The naked fact stared me in the face, and like many 
other naked things the sight was hardly agreeable. I 
had sworn to Jenkins on the strength of his ears, his 
eyes, his hair, and the scar on his wrist, and Jenkins 
had been found guilty. And here were all four pre- 
senting a check at the bank, and I could have sworn to 
all four again. 

It might have been half an hour when Lord Lowes- 
toft’s carriage drove up hastily, and I was sent for. 
I found his lordship in a towering rage. He was ac- 
companied by my visitor of half an hour before, and 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


53 


when I came out he held his check in his hand. I 
knew him well, but he hardly acknowledged me by a 
nod when I came out. Holding out the check, how- 
ever, he demanded, angrily, — 

“ How does it happen that you refused to pay my 
check ?” 

His lordship’s tone was rude. His lordship’s look 
was threatening. Once more I may remark that 
Englishmen dislike rudeness when it is shown to them- 
selves. I resented his lordship’s rudeness on the spot. 

“ This gentleman has misinformed you, my lord. I 
did not refuse to pay your check. I merely asked him 
to endorse it.” 

“And why the devil, sir, should he endorse it? You 
know my signature, I presume ?” 

“ Certainly, my lord ; but I wished to know to whom 
I was paying so large a sum of money.” 

“You’re deucedly inquisitive then, I must say. And 
for the future I shall protect my friends from imperti- 
nence.” 

“Your lordship will do as you please elsewhere, but 
here we shall exercise our undoubted right whenever 
we think there is any occasion for it.” 

“ Yery good, sir, very good! So far as my business 
is concerned, you will not be troubled. What is the 
balance ?” he added, turning to Peters, to whom he had 
evidently spoken before I came in. 

“Nineteen hundred and sixty-five pounds, five shil- 
lings, and nine pence.” 

“ I will take it now,” said his lordship, shortly. 

“ Take Lord Lowestoft’s check for his balance, Mr. 
Peters,” I said. “Give it him in Bank of England 
notes, and close his lordship’s account.” 

As I turned away my eyes rested once more on his 
5 * 


54 


THE TKACK OF A STOKM 


companion ; he was leaning easily against the desk, a 
half smile on his dark face. He had made no remark ; 
it was evidently quite unnecessary. I didn’t like the 
man’s face. It was Jenkins’s face with a difference, 
animated by a worse disposition. Who was the man ? 
The impulsive desire to learn his name had already 
cost the bank a good account, and had also cost me a 
loss of temper. And yet I was no nearer knowing the 
name than before. It can hardly be wondered at that 
I was not in love with Jenkins’s counterpart, that I 
looked at him with no very friendly eyes. Ho doubt 
he saw it, for he looked at me, and his lips curled in a 
sarcastic smile. I may be prejudiced, but the face 
seemed to me a bad one. There was a wild reckless 
look in the eyes, but there seemed to me a cold look 
also. It was a handsome face, certainly, — what you 
call a patrician face, — but bad at the same time, and 
cruel. I returned the man’s look steadily, and he 
looked away. For some reason he didn’t like it; he 
objected to face me. 

The notes were handed to Lord Lowestoft, and he 
was about to put them in his pocket. I stopped him. 

“ Oblige me by counting them,” I said, quietly. 

He glanced at me hastily, but he did so. 

“ They’re all right,” he said, half sulkily, as he pushed 
them into his pocket. 

“ Good afternoon, then, my lord.” 

“ Good afternoon,” he replied, turning hastily away. 
— “ Come along, Fortescue, we’re late already !” 

As he spoke he left the bank. His companion hastily 
followed him. 

The name, then, was Fortescue. By accident I had 
learned so much as this, after trying to find it out in 
vain. 


THE GATHERING CLOUDS 


55 


That is all. I have heard nothing of Jenkins since 
then. I have seen nothing more of Fortescue. If 
there was more than a coincidence in all this I shall 
probably never know it. If there is a mystery here it 
is likely to remain a mystery to me. If the doctor is 
right I may perhaps learn the truth by and by, perhaps 
not, — who knows ? In the mean time this is all I have 
to tell. I only hope I may not have been too hasty and 
positive. I pray God I may not have been the means 
of condemning an innocent man ! 



PART II. 

IN THE STORM. 

CHARLES FORTESCUE'S STORY. 







PART II. 

IN THE STORM. 

CHARLES FORTESCUE’S STORY. 


CHAPTER I. 

For many years past I have meant to tell the story 
of certain passages in my life, but hitherto I have 
always shrunk from doing so. Those who may read it 
when it is written will be able to understand and excuse 
the feeling. Past troubles are said to be a source of 
pleasure to some people, but I can safely say that my 
own, though long since past, are far from affording any 
pleasure to me. This may arise from their nature; it 
may also arise in part from mine. Yet I suppose there 
are some misfortunes so great that the recollection of 
them becomes a vague horror ; some dangers that were 
at once so terrible and so imminent that their memory 
must always bring a shudder to one who only just 
escaped them. This must have been my case. Thank 
God ! the storm has long since passed away, and I have 
had my share of calm, and more than a common share 
of life’s sunshine since then. Yet there are times when 
the shadow of the tempest rests upon me still, and 
some of the horror of the past will be with me, I think, 
to the very end. 

For my own sake I should never have written this. 
Few people know the story, and those few will soon 

69 


60 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


have passed away. It is in justice to others that 
I now recall the painful past. The story may have 
little interest for strangers: for my children at least 
it should have much. For their sakes therefore I 
write it. For their satisfaction I wish to leave a 
record as faithful and minute as my memory can 
now command. In telling it I must necessarily cast 
imputations upon another whom I would, had it been 
possible, have sheltered from blame. Fortunately, 
that other can no longer be affected by its severity. 
Long years ago he passed to another tribunal than 
ours. 

What I have to tell is the story of a shipwreck — a 
shipwreck in which a life went down, — socially, physi- 
cally, morally, went down into the deep. It is the story 
also of a rescue, tardy indeed, and only not just too late, 
but of a rescue still. It will tell how the storm came 
down, sudden and unlooked for, upon a human soul. 
It will tell how his sky was overcast, and the lights of 
his heaven were obscured, how the storm increased, 
and his vessel went to pieces. It will show how the 
shipwrecked man battled with the waves, and for a 
time struggled against his fate ; and how he strained 
his eyes in the vain search for one gleam of light to 
cheer and sustain him in the struggle ; how the gleam 
of light came not to his prayers, but the sky grew 
blacker and the storm more fierce, till in despair he 
was about to sink. It will also tell how Heaven at last 
was kind, how the storm-cloud parted, and a single star 
shone out clear, bright, and soft on the eyes of the 
despairing man; how, encouraged by the light, he made 
one more effort to escape his doom, and how that effort 
proved successful. Two figures that stood near my 
path seem to me to embody the shipwreck and the res- 


IN THE STOEM 


61 


cue. That of a man represents the storm, that of a 
woman the star. 

To begin with an explanation. I was the younger 
of twin brothers. Our parents had no other children, 
our family, one of the oldest in the midland counties, 
no other representatives. Our father’s succession to 
the title and estates had been unlooked for, and his 
marriage was a late one. A general officer who had 
seen much service, his hair was more than gray when 
he married, it was snowy-white when my earliest 
memories bring him back to me. Of my mother I 
have no remembrance, and my father never named her 
in my hearing. A sweet but vague painting in water- 
colors, which from my earliest childhood hung in his 
study (and now hangs before me where it hung then), 
represented all that my brother or myself ever knew 
of a mother. Our father was a proud man. A life of 
honorable service, rewarded by many medals and many 
scars, had something, no doubt, to do with this ; the 
traditions of a family famous for its pride and its 
honorable conduct had, perhaps, more. The first senti- 
ments I ever heard from him were sentiments of per- 
sonal honor and of family pride. The first and the 
last impression he made on me was that honor was 
everything, life comparatively nothing. I think my 
father was fond of me. I know that I was fondly, 
almost passionately, attached to him. He took less 
notice of me indeed than my brother, on whom he 
looked as the representative of the family, but I fancy 

I like still to fancy — that he loved me more. Stern 

as his manner always was, it softened sometimes when 
he looked at me : it seldom did so when he looked at 
George. There is something in natural affinity, after 
all. He might not know it, and he might be unwilling 


62 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


to believe it, but be could not escape the feeling that I 
could understand and sympathize with him, and that 
George could not. 

My brother and I were wonderfully alike. As little 
children, I have heard it said, we could hardly be dis- 
tinguished even by our nurses. In features, in height, 
in complexion, we grew to boyhood and to youth with 
the ideal likeness of twins. 

It was a foolish notion of distinguishing us in some 
way that led to the abrupt dismissal of the nurse we 
had looked on almost as a mother. She was, it seems, 
of gypsy blood, and she allowed one of her own people 
to mark us on the wrist. I am sure the man deceived 
her into supposing it would not hurt us, for when she 
found he had burnt our arms, she cried bitterly for 
hours. I had rather have died than told, but George 
told my father, and she was dismissed within an hour. 
The burns were not severe ; they were made with some 
acid, I suppose, and they soon healed ; but they left a 
mark on the right wrist of each of us in exactly the 
same place. The mark was drawn round the edge of a 
half-crown which poor nurse gave her gypsy friend ; 
only George’s was drawn round the upper and mine 
round the lower edge of the coin. 

Like as we were in features and appearance, we were 
but little alike in other respects. George was always 
full of energy and enterprise. Anything wild, daring, 
and dangerous had a charm for him, and he led me 
into every boyish scrape that I can remember. As a 
child and boy I had always followed his lead. At home 
he was always treated as first, and I accepted the second 
position as natural, both there and at school. In study, 
it is true, George was always backward ; but that only 
led to my doing his exercises and verses, and even his 


IN THE STORM 


63 


impositions for him at Eton. In the playing fields he 
was a natural leader. Daring, reckless, and imperious, 
he was looked up to by us all there, and by me most 
of all. To do his work and ward off his punishments 
seemed my natural vocation. 

I believe he loved me. I know I loved him with an 
instinctive, unreasoning sort of love, common, I fancy, 
in dogs, but hardly known to human beings except in 
the mysterious relation of twins. Throughout our 
childhood we were never separated ; through our 
school-days we were always together ; and the separa- 
tion, when it did come, was the first great trial of my 
life. We left Eton together, George to join a cavalry 
regiment as cornet, and I to go to Oxford. Such a 
separation is really final. We are so much the crea- 
tures of circumstances that it needs only various sur- 
roundings to make different men of natures the most 
alike. Our natures had really little in common, and it 
needed only differing circumstances to complete the 
loss of resemblance. 

I spent nearly four years at Oxford, among books 
and men of books. George spent the same years 
among the temptations of a fast regiment, generally 
about town. I did not see him often, but when I did 
it was only for a day at a time, when he ran down to 
Oxford, or when I came up to London. These chance 
meetings told me little about my brother. You need 
to see much of one you have known well before you 
discover that you know him no longer. I had ceased 
to know George, but I did not suspect the truth. In 
externals we were still the same. People still declared 
they couldn’t tell us apart, and so far, at least, as I was 
concerned, the old affection, or something like it, still 
remained. The stories of his doings that he would tell 


64 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


when we met sounded strange and wild to my sober 
experience, but, after all, they seemed natural enough 
for him, and were only renewals of many an Eton 
adventure on a wider field. I couldn’t fail to see that 
they were wild, but I couldn’t criticise them in George 
as I would in any one else. 

The four years had passed. I had taken my degree, 
not without distinction, and came up to London with 
the idea of reading for the bar. George’s regiment 
was not in town, so I saw nothing of him. I was daily 
and eagerly expecting him on a short visit which he 
had promised to make, however, when I received a 
letter instead. Strangely enough, I have that letter 
now ; it is as follows : 

Ipswich, December 10, 1832. 

Dear Charley, — 

Don’t expect me in town, after all. I’m awfully 
sorry to disappoint you, but I must be off to the con- 
tinent for a month or two, and I don’t want the fellows 
in town to be asking my reason. I may tell you, how- 
ever, that I’m in a devil of a scrape, as usual ; that is 
to say, I should be if it were known. Fortunately, it is 
not, and I don’t think it can possibly be traced. It 
musn’t be this time, for the governor would never get 
over it. I was a fool to have anything to do with a 
frolic of the sort ; but there, least said soonest mended, 
and I shall certainly say nothing. Luckily, my own 
name was never in it. You 'know the old chancery 
property — our mother’s legacy. Fortunately, on this 
occasion I had the good luck to be Mr. Jenkins of Holby 
Lodge. I never was so glad of anything in my life. 
The whole business turned out badly, and I wouldn’t 
for the world the governor knew. Not another soul 
knows anything of it but yourself, and I know I can 


IN THE STORM 


65 


depend on you to say nothing. If any one inquires, 
tell them I’m not quite the thing, and am off to Paris 
for a month. Good-bye, old fellow! Sorry I can’t 
come up just now. By the time I do, I suppose you’ll 
be in Chambers, and as musty as they are. Don’t 
overdo it, you know. Yours as usual, 

G. Fortescue. 

That was all ; but at the time it made me strangely 
uneasy. What foolish prank had he been playing? 
What scrape could he have been in bad enough to make 
him go away ? I puzzled over the letter for days, but 
could make nothing of it. George had given me no 
address, and I didn’t venture to write to his brother 
officers to learn one. The only explanation I could 
think of was that George had been mixed up in some 
wild practical joke which might have led to some seri- 
ous accident; but even so, why the assumed name? 
Why the retreat to France ? I put the letter aside, 
but the vague uneasiness it had created in my mind 
wouldn’t be put aside. 

I had to face my father with it hanging over me 
still, for, of course, he looked for us home at Christmas. 
Fortunately, George had written to him, and, though 
he was evidently much annoyed, he asked me no ques- 
tions, and hardly referred to it when I was there. It 
was the first Christmas we had failed to meet, and it 
seemed to make another step in our separation. I came 
back to town. I got Chambers and began to read law. 
I had a few college friends engaged in the same way, 
and gradually I began to form new companionships 
and new pursuits, so that I felt my brother’s absence 
less than I had expected. 

He was away for more than three months, and before 
e 6* 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


he came back his regiment had gone to Ireland, where, 
of course, he had to join it. He was in town only for 
an hour in passing, and I missed him then ; he never 
went near my father at all. I was sorry I missed him, 
for the uneasy mystery of his letter was with me still. 
It gradually died away, however, as time went on. 
Nothing had come of his scrape, whatever it might 
have been, so he was evidently right. The disguise 
which seemed to me like disgrace had answered its 
purpose. For many reasons I was glad, but most of all 
for my father’s sake. He was feeble now, and any 
shock might prove serious. No shock could be so seri- 
ous as one that came in the form of dishonor. So the 
year passed away. So we reached the month of 
October. 


CHAPTER II. 


October is nearly always melancholy in England; 
sadder than November, for November speaks in no 
doubtful accents of winter ; sadder by far than winter 
itself, because the deadest months of the year have a 
beauty that is all their own. Beneath the snows of 
winter lie the warmth of spring and the glow of 
summer. Behind the storm there is the sunshine. Octo- 
ber is all retrospect. The weather speaks but of the 
failing forces of the summer, the landscape tells only 
of the life of the year sinking to decay. I had always 
this feeling about October weather ever since I had 
consciously any impressions of the kind at all. I liked 
being out of doors, indeed, but it was that I might 
enjoy the luxury of nature’s regrets. Since that Octo- 
ber I have had other reasons. 

It came upon me suddenly. The great events of our 
lives, the sovereign crises of our fate, generally do so, 
and it is well. In surprise, more than in wine, there is 
truth. It is the real man who confronts the sudden 
shock, before reflection has had time to warp him into 
an artificial shape, or the thousand considerations that 
appeal to his feelings or his prejudices interfere to 
make him act by rule and speak in the accents of 
habit. In my own case, at least, it was sudden. 

I can remember it now as if it were yesterday. I 
was sitting in the Park half idle, half meditative. The 
influence of the season no doubt was upon me, and the 
sighing of the wind and the coloring of the trees helped 

67 


68 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


to make me melancholy. At the moment few people 
in London had less to make them so. I enjoyed study, 
and study was my employment. I liked society, and 
our name and family connections ensured me more 
than enough of that. I had enough for my wants, 
opportunities for my enjoyments, a future for my am- 
bition. I was not even in love, and yet I was disposed 
to be melancholy. Is there something saddening in 
the approach of trouble? Does the spirit feel the 
shadow of the future falling chill across the sunshine 
of the present, before the grosser part of the intellect 
can perceive it ? It may be so. What is there, indeed, 
that may not be ? 

I was aroused by a voice, apparently addressing me. 
I looked up ; a gentleman stood staring intently at me. 
So far as I knew, I had never seen the man before, yet 
he looked at me with a strange vivid look of recogni- 
tion. It was unfriendly, too ; I could feel that instantly. 
He thought he knew me, — he thought he knew no good 
of me. What could it mean ? Some mistake it must 
be, of course. And yet, — and yet I was somehow ready 
at the moment to anticipate trouble. I looked at the 
gentleman as he looked at me. He seemed puzzled at 
first, and then angry. It was as if he expected to be 
recognized, and was angry that he was not. I certainly 
did not recognize him, so I waited for more. I expected 
something to follow, and I expected nothing agreeable, 
without knowing in the least what was to follow, — 
without the shadow of a forecast of the truth. I think 
I was unconsciously getting on my guard during these 
moments of waiting ; it was necessary. 

The gentleman, still looking sternly in my face, 
said, — 

“Mr. Jenkins, I believe ?” 


IN THE STORM 


69 


Why was it that the first thought of trouble had re- 
called George to my mind? Why was it that looking 
on the angry face of the man brought back the letter 
— of which I had never had the explanation — to my 
mind with a shock ? Why it was I do not know. But 
I do know that it was so. 

I was scarcely surprised to hear the name. Some- 
how I seemed almost to have expected it, so vivid at 
the moment was the impression of George’s letter on 
my memory. 

“Jenkins?” I repeated, wonderingly, I dare say, for 
the name seemed so strange a confirmation of my ex- 
pectations. “Jenkins? Well, sir, and if so, how can I 
serve you ?” 

Why I answered to that name I do not know. 
It was an impulse. Does one ever know how to ac- 
count for an impulse ? Is it not the result of a thou- 
sand unexplained causes in the past, as much as it is 
the parent of a thousand unexplainable consequences 
in the future ? 

The gentleman smiled. I didn’t like the smile. It 
was not friendly. It certainly was not complimentary 
to me, I thought. I rose from my seat, by no means 
unwilling to close the interview. He arrested me. 

“ Of Ilolby Lodge, near^Bristol ?” he asked, in a tone 
of marked and peculiar meaning. 

Once more the impulse returned to learn more by 
acknowledging the address, as I had already acknowl- 
edged the name. Once more I gave way to the impulse, 
though it was with a sense of reluctance. This man — 
what did he want? Why did he address himself to 
me ? What was the mystery, and how was I involved 
in it? Then it dawned upon me, — he took me for 
George. This was the scrape, then, that had driven 


70 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


George away. This was the business which our father 
must never hear of. I gave way to the impulse. As I 
had admitted the name, I now admitted the address, — 

“ At your service, sir,” I replied. “ And what then ?” 

He looked hard in my face as I spoke, and as he 
looked he grew still more angry. For a moment he 
paused ; he seemed almost to gasp for breath. What 
could it all mean? I looked steadily at him. I was 
anxious to know the meaning of it. I was determined 
to know. After a pause of a second or two, he re- 
covered himself, and replied, — 

“ Then will you kindly return the diamond ring of 
which you robbed me on the 19th of last November?” 

He said it slowly, distinctly, venomously. Was the 
man mad ? He didn’t look like it. Was I mad, or did 
I hear amiss? The blood rushed to my heart; then 
it ebbed away with a strange, sickening sensation. 
Robbed on the 19th of November last ! Was this the 
frolic ? Could it be even wildly possible that this was 
the scrape ? And our father, — George might well say 
that he would never get over it. 

One thing was certain. He must never hear of it, 
come what might. The mind moves quickly in mo- 
ments of peril. I seemed in that one second of time to 
see many things. If this man had indeed lost his ring 
in some wild frolic, it might be restored — something 
might, something must be done, anything to get rid 
of this terrible nightmare of trouble and disgrace. 
The first thing to be done was, clearly, to hear the 
facts, the next to approach the man. He didn’t, after 
all, look so formidable. I said something, I hardly knew 
what, about his being mistaken as to the robber, if he 
had lost a ring. My object was to learn more of the 
facts, and if possible also to form some idea of the 


IN THE STORM 


71 


man’s character. For the moment I was half stupefied 
by the suddenness of the thing, but still I vaguely 
fancied the matter might somehow be hushed up quietly. 
To judge by his face, I had made a mistake. He was 
evidently angry at what I had said : there was manifest 
indignation in the way he turned upon me, and in the 
tone in which he spoke. I had been anxious to hear 
more of the facts. His next words told me more. 
They did more than that: they told me all. At the 
moment they were spoken I scarcely seemed to hear or 
to understand them. Yet for years since then they 
have rung in my ears, and even now as I write I seem 
to hear them still. Ho wonder ! To me they were like 
the squall that ushers in the tempest, the first blast of 
the storm in which my life had all but sunk. 

“ I am under no delusion, sir,” he said, sternly. “ On 
the 19th of last November I was robbed of one hun- 
dred and twenty-five pounds and a diamond ring by a 
highwayman who stopped the Dover coach. I lost my 
ring and my money. Another passenger was less for- 
tunate, — he lost his life !” 

A highwayman! Oh, God! had it come to this? 
Somebody killed! By accident, no doubt; but what 
of that ? The hope of a compromise vanished as he 
spoke. The idea of restitution went out suddenly like 
an extinguished candle. I had never till that moment 
been face to face with a great terror : but I was so now. 
As he spoke it seemed to approach me. Vague, indis- 
tinct, and horrible, it seemed to creep towards me, cast- 
ing a black shadow over my future as it came, and I 
could only grope in the darkness. I seemed to myself to 
have lost sensation. My mind refused to act, my will 
seemed powerless to make any decision. Then I looked 
at my accuser, and forced myself to speak once more. 


72 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


My mouth was dry ; my words seemed to cling to 
my palate like something glutinous. My voice sounded 
strange and foreign to myself. The gentleman looked 
at me. To his eyes I must have looked the image of 
guilt. At last I managed to say, — 

“ You were robbed, you say, but why do you connect 
me with the robbery ?” 

As the words followed one another mechanically, I 
heard them as if from a stranger, and I felt, even as I 
spoke them, how weak and foolish they were. “ How ?” 
Had he not recognized my face as the face of the robber ? 
Had he not somehow learned the name that George had 
given ? Had I not said that name was mine ? His 
answer came quickly, loudly, and angrily. Up to a 
point it was the very answer I had looked for. Beyond 
that — oh, God ! beyond that it was still unexpected. 

“ Because, sir, the robber was Mr. Jenkins of Holby 
Lodge. Because Mr. Jenkins had my money, which he 
spent, and my ring, which he refused to give back. 
Because Mr. Jenkins committed a foul murder on the 
19th of last November, and I recognize you as Mr. 
Jenkins, and charge you with the robbery and the 
murder.” 

The man had stepped back from me as he spoke, and 
he spoke loudly. Every word fell on my ear like the 
stroke of a bell. Every word seemed printed on my 
brain as with a hot iron. Bobber! Highwayman! 
and now, murderer ! These epithets were applied by 
this man to me, but for the moment I hardly noticed 
that. What did that matter ? I knew I was none of 
these things, but it was George he meant, and he — was 
he not guilty ? Had he not written that letter, every 
word of which might have been traced by the fingers 
that wrote in lightning on the Babylonian wall, so 


IN THE STORM 


73 


intense was the glare of conviction it now cast upon 
my mind ? Had he not confessed the scrape, the 
frolic! Oh, God! he had called it a frolic! Had he 
not given the name by which I was accused ? For the 
moment I could not separate myself from him. For the 
moment I knew the bitterness which is worse than death. 

I stared fixedly in my accuser’s face. He said after- 
wards in court that I looked like a man turned to stone. 
It may be true. If horror and an awful dread can 
turn a man to stone, it must be true ! 

Another voice then broke in, but to my ear it sounded 
thin and distant, like the sound of a bell far up a moun- 
tain-side. It spoke, and my accuser answered it. I un- 
derstood what was said, but with a vague, unreal kind 
of understanding. I saw the speaker : he looked like a 
policeman ; but I saw him as figures are seen in dreams. 

He spoke to me, and I believe I answered him ; but I 
have no remembrance of what passed. Behind him, 
like a ghastly background, I seemed to see a gallows 
and the figure of my brother standing there — a criminal, 
doomed to die. Through the sound of his voice and of 
mine, I seemed to hear over and over again in ever 
deeper and more dreadful tones, the words, “ Committed 
a foul murder on tbe 19th of November last.” The 
vision never for an instant left my eyes, the sound was 
never absent for an instant from my ears and brain. 

At last we walked away, we three together, the police- 
man, the accuser, and myself. I went mechanically. 
I had no idea where we were going. I had no interest 
whatever in the question. For the moment life seemed 
to have came to a dead stop. Sensation alone was left. 
Thought, will, reflection — all were in abeyance. In- 
stinct, however, remained, and even here instinct was 
serviceable. It was instinct that made me cling to 

7 


D 


74 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


the name I had acknowledged, that made me refuse 
to give any address or name of any friend. I know 
vaguely that I was taken from the place. I felt rather 
than saw faces that stared at me with some surprise 
and much curiosity. At last I was alone. Instinc- 
tively I knew that it was a prison. The bare walls, the 
heavy door, the small and barred window, all so un- 
familiar to my experience, were all familiar enough to 
my imagination. It was a prison. There was a bed 
in a corner. Stupidly I sat down upon the bed. 
Stupidly I looked around on the place. I scarcely 
felt any surprise. I hardly was conscious of any 
sensation. It was growing dark, and I was dimly 
conscious that I was weary. Mechanically I stretched 
myself upon the bed. Mechanically I closed my eyes, 
and instantly lost consciousness. 

It was broad daylight when I awoke, and two men 
were standing beside me. One, from his dress, was 
an official, the other was apparently a doctor. The 
first sound I heard was the voice of the official. 

“ This man,” he said, “ was brought in last night on 
a charge of murder and robbery. He must have fallen 
asleep almost at once, and we have found it impossible 
to awake him.” 

“ Since what hour did you say ?” asked the other, 
briskly. 

“ Since about five o’clock yesterday.” 

“ Twenty hours ! A good, long sleep ; but no harm 
done. Sleep is natural, too ; probably a shock to the 
nervous system. Didn’t expect to be caught, eh?” 
And the doctor laughed pleasantly, as if the idea was 
gratifying. 

“Well perhaps so, but I don’t remember another 
case like it in all my experience.” 


IN THE STORM 


75 


“ Likely enough ; it isn’t everybody in the criminal 
line who has nerves like this fellow. This is a gen- 
tleman, too, by the look of him. Depend upon it, 
however, there is no harm done. A sleep like that 
would restore a dozen murderers. Let him have it 
out.” 

The voices died away. The footsteps slowly receded, 
leaving only distant echoes, and I was left alone. By 
some instinct I had not opened my eyes wide enough 
to be observed ; by some chance, rather than design, I 
had given no sign of awakening while they remained. 

I was awake, however, and once more the horror 
returned. For hours, and more or less for days, I was 
conscious of little more than this. The prison, with its 
irksome regulations and its dreary monotony, was 
scarcely noticed. The preliminary inquiry and com- 
mittal passed me by like a dream. To this one subject 
my mind returned, if diverted for a moment, and dwelt 
upon it with a persistency that was like a craze. 

So the days passed on, and little by little they pro- 
duced an effect. The muscles of the mind, like those 
of the body, grow accustomed to any strain if only 
they hold out against the first wrench. The horrible 
idea of George’s guilt and of his danger grew more 
familiar, and narrowed itself down to smaller compass. 
Whatever crime had really been committed, I knew that 
George had been guilty of it. Whatever punishment 
the law awarded to the crime, I knew, if only he 
were accused and tried, he stood in deadly peril of. 
Gradually my feelings towards him were changing, 
too. My twin brother I still loved as I had always 
loved him ; but this man who had done this deed of 
shame and violence seemed to be a stranger to me. I 
didn’t love, I almost hated him. 


76 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


It was long before any sense of personal danger 
came home to my mind. George’s crime and his 
danger weighed on me like a nightmare. In the 
middle of the night I would start from my sleep 
trembling in every limb, a cold perspiration running 
down my face, appalled by the vision of his punish- 
ment. Or I would picture to myself my father learn- 
ing the news that his eldest son was to be tried for 
robbery and murder. My mind was tortured with 
fancies and racked with forebodings, but at this time 
they were all for others — none of them for myself. 

The actual position of matters came home to me 
when the governor told me gravely that the day was 
fixed for the trial ; did I wish to communicate with 
my friends ? Did I wish to consult any professional 
adviser? I said I would consider the matter, and he 
left me. It was a shock, but it was scarcely a surprise. 
In a certain vague way I had known it all along. 
When I answered to the name of Jenkins I felt that I 
was taking a responsibility on my shoulders. Mow, 
however, the question was plainly before me, and I 
seemed for the first time fully to understand it. I had 
taken my brother’s place ; was I prepared to keep it 
to the end? Under any other circumstances the ques- 
tion would not have been worth considering. If things 
had been in any way dilferent I should, of course, have 
proved my own innocence and let George, if need be, 
prove his. As it was, this was impossible. For my 
brother to be accused was, I felt sure, to be condemned. 
Did I not know that he was the man ? Had he not, in 
confessing his scrape and acknowledging his assumed 
name, rendered his guilt certain to my mind ? 

I was not a hero in this matter. I was only, as all 
of us are, the creature of circumstances. To George I 


IN THE STORM 


77 


felt sure it was a matter of life and death. If once 
accused, he would not escape — I seemed to know it. 
On the other hand, I might escape. I knew I was 
innocent, and I had no distinct idea of the evidence 
likely to be brought against me to prove me guilty. I 
could not doubt that the case would break down, and 
if so, all would be saved. 

George ! I confess I shuddered now when I thought 
of him, and yet I felt, come what might, he must be 
saved. My father — I had almost ceased to think of 
him as having two sons — my father would escape a 
blow which must, I felt sure, be fatal. The old honor- 
able name of our house — the name that had come 
down untarnished by disgrace through five hundred 
years — that, too, would be saved. No one would know 
me, or was likely to recognize a Fortescue in John 
Jenkins, accused of murder and acquitted. Every- 
thing depended on my silence ; it was not much for 
my father’s son to decide that everything should de- 
pend upon himself. Everything hinged on my resolu- 
tion ; I need hardly say that it was quickly taken. 
The risk to me did not seem very great ; but, great or 
small, it was clearly a risk to be run. 

When the governor came to know my decision, it was 
ready. I had no friends with whom I wished to com- 
municate, no desire to employ any professional assist- 
ance. He looked at me gravely for a few seconds, then 
he turned away. As he went he said, “You know 
your own affairs best; but I think you are unwise. 
Should you change your mind, send for me.” 

I shuddered, but I didn’t change my mind. So the 
days went by, so the year advanced into November, 
and the day of the trial came om 
7 * 


CHAPTEK III. 


The trial did not take me unawares. Before it came 
on I had considered what my position was likely to be. 
So far as I could foresee it, I was ready to meet it. My 
one great fear was the fear of recognition. If nobody 
knew me, the danger seemed to me to be trifling. I 
knew, indeed, that the resemblance between myself 
and George was striking ; but, after all, a mere resem- 
blance was little. I did not know how the identity of 
name was known or how it was to be proved, and 
against that I had no means of providing. In one 
way, the more I thought about it the more serious 
it appeared. Once or twice I even thought of a 
lawyer, but two things withheld me from employing 
one. A lawyer, to begin with, meant expense, and I 
knew enough of the matter to know that a lawyer with 
a half confidence was almost more dangerous than 
none. No, I would stand alone. So long as I was un- 
recognized, the disgraceful secret would remain a secret 
still. If the worst came to the worst, the disgrace 
might die with John Jenkins, and no one else need be 
the wiser. And so the day came. 

Curiosity had never taken me into a court of justice, 
and the scene was to me at first strange and impressive. 
It was a foggy day in November. Lamps were lighted 
in the street as we passed. Lamps were burning dimly 
in the passages, and even in the court itself when we 
got there. It was crowded. The strange, swimming, 
foggy air, half lit up by the yellow glare of the lamps, 
78 


IN THE STORM 


79 


made the hundreds of faces present look like thousands. 
A mass of human faces is always an impressive thing, 
but a mass of faces turned upon oneself, turned with a 
curiosity wholly unmixed with friendly interest, this is 
terrible. If these hundreds of faces had been those 
of the Gorgons, they could hardly have been more 
dreadful. It is not the face, but the soul that shows 
through the mask of the face, that is human. Horror 
is a thing not of features, but of expression. A crowd 
without pity is an assemblage of Gorgons. It was on 
such a crowd that I looked through the murky light 
of the Old Baily Court on the 19th of November, 
1833. 

For a moment it overcome me. I shuddered. Of 
all human troubles, loneliness in misfortune is the most 
inhuman, and therefore the most hard to bear. Of all 
kinds of loneliness, that which finds itself face to face 
with a crowd of fellow-creatures is the most terrible. 
It was only for a moment, after all. What could it 
matter to me what these people thought of John Jen- 
kins? If nobody among that crowd knew Charles 
Fortescue, I might well endure their stare of curiosity. 
This was the question, and this question I was bent on 
solving. It was an anxious moment. From row to 
row I scanned these faces. From tier to tier my eyes 
followed them down. They seemed to glare on me 
with hard, stony eyes, and in return I stared at them. 
What these thousand human but not human-looking 
eyes thought of me as they looked, I knew not, and I 
cared nothing. Was there one pair that could identify 
me? That was everything. Thank God! there was 
not. To every eye I was John Jenkins, to none Charles 
Fortescue. I drew a long breath of relief; the greatest 
anxiety was gone. Now I felt that the worst that 


80 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


could happen was not the worst that might have hap- 
pened. 

I could observe now what was going on, and I could 
observe it with some interest. The entrance of the 
judge, the impanelling of the jury, all the formality 
of the court, passed before me, and in all I could take 
an interest such as a spectator might have taken. To 
ray own consciousness the whole scene was unreal. As 
the actor looks at the audience across the footlights, so, 
it seemed to me, I looked from the dock at the crowded 
court. It was all but a performance. The trial was 
not a real trial; the accused was not a real person. 
And yet through all this feeling there was somewhere 
behind it all the feeling that, real or unreal, it had a 
serious interest for me. I exerted myself to compre- 
hend what was being said and done, and after a time I 
succeeded. Gradually I became more interested. It 
seemed to me, indeed, that somebody else was being 
tried ; but I had an interest in the person. I watched 
the faces of the witnesses, I watched the expression of 
the jury; I glanced from time to time at the judge, 
and my eyes even wandered over the mass of faces in 
the audience, as if to gather opinions as to what was 
said. 

As the trial went on the interest grew greater. I 
seemed to be hearing the story of a crime just as any 
one else might hear it ; only it was a crime that had a 
special interest for me. I had no lawyer to defend me, 
and I don’t think I should have gained much by having 
one. So far as I was concerned, only one defence was 
feasible. I was not the man. So far as the man who 
did the deed was concerned, no defence was possible for 
him. 

The evidence of the crime was complete* The rec- 


IN THE STOKM 


81 


ognition of George would have been complete had he 
been where I was. The tracing of the notes, the use 
of the name Jenkins, were explained in order, and 
satisfactorily explained. There was but one question 
remaining, — there was only one defence left, — was I 
the man who stopped the coach ? Was I the man who 
was the friend of the major at the Norfolk Arms Inn ? 
I did not think I had been so like my brother. The 
banker seemed hardly to have a doubt of my identity. 
It is true he went chiefly by the scar, but nothing could 
shake his belief that the scar was the same. His evi- 
dence was strong, but after all it was only one. To my 
surprise everybody seemed equally sure. The coach- 
man, the guard, the French passenger, none of them 
seemed to have a doubt. I could feel that it was grow- 
ing serious. The confidence I had felt in my own sense 
of innocence began to ebb away, as each question I 
asked seemed to find the witnesses more certain, and 
to leave the jury more solemn-looking. I could not 
blame the witnesses. As they told their stories, I felt 
sure they believed them wholly true. There was only 
one flaw, and it was one they could scarcely be expected 
to perceive. If I had been one of the jury, I think 
they would have convinced me. If I had been one 
amongst that staring sea of faces that looked on, I 
think I too would have looked more and more sternly 
at the accused man. 

For the first time I began to realize what I had done. 
In all my dreams the vision had been of George’s 
shame and George’s punishment. It began to dawn 
upon me now that the shame and the punishment might 
be not George’s, but my own. It was a shock ; but it 
was a shock of a new kind. It is one thing to be 
weighed down by the sense of guilt, even the guilt of 
/ 


82 THE TRACK OF A' STORM 

another, and a very different thing to be alarmed at a 
danger. The new sensation did me good ; it roused me. 

Up to this moment all had been unreal. I was taking 
part in a performance, and acting the part of another 
man. Now I felt that my life was at stake, and now I 
fought as one fights for # life. I could see it in the faces 
of the jury and of the lawyers who were present. I had 
been quite uninteresting to the bar before ; I could see 
that I interested them now. They watched eagerly for 
my questions to each witness ; they looked eagerly at 
the witnesses for the answers. 

Even the spectators seemed to enjoy it. The old 
gladiator taste has survived the old gladiator shows. 
It had only been a trial for murder before ; it was a 
struggle for life now. I certainly succeeded better ; 
more than one witness made mistakes, more than one 
evidently failed when pressed to remember clearly all 
that he had sworn to at first. The Frenchman’s evi- 
dence turned out to be good for nothing. The coach- 
man and guard had evidently only a vague idea of the 
appearance of the robber, after all. Two witnesses only 
were clear and unshakable. Two only I could do 
nothing with, — the banker and the inn-keeper. Mr. 
Marvin remembered all about the crime, and all about 
the interview. The inn-keeper remembered all about 
the notes, and professed to remember my own face 
clearly. One by one the witnesses were examined ; 
one by one they answered my questions. Then the 
case for the crown was finished. 

I called no witnesses, and the impression was a bad 
one. I felt it, yet I did not feel hopeless. There were 
only two points on which I could rely, and I tried to 
make the most of them. I took it for granted that the 
witnesses were correct as to the crime. I only con- 


IN THE STOKM 


83 


tended that they were in error as to the criminal. I 
pointed, out that the circumstances were all against 
accurate observations and all in favor of mistakes. I 
dwelt on the snow, the failing light, the natural agita- 
tion of a man unaccustomed to danger. I appealed to 
the jury not to condemn an innocent man on testimony 
which could not be accurate, though it might be precise 
and circumstantial. Then I spoke of the notes. I 
asked where the evidence was that connected me per- 
sonally with them. I demanded to know where the 
major was, who was the only person sworn to as 
having had the notes. In a word, I did my best. I 
felt that my life was at stake, and I fought as men 
fight for life. 

As I called no witnesses, the crown did not reply to 
my address. The judge did so, however. I know of 
no torture so exquisite as that of listening in silence 
while one’s life is being talked away. He was an old 
man, but his voice was clear and solemn. Every sen- 
tence fell on my ear like a death knell : every word he 
uttered seemed to take away from me one more chance 
of life. The judge evidently believed in my guilt, and 
he was apparently anxious that I should not escape. 
At last — it seemed an age — but at last he finished. 

It had long since grown dark. The yellow hazy 
light from the lamps had long been the only light in 
court. The heavy, murky atmosphere had grown 
heavier and more murky than ever in the crowded 
court-house. The faces looked strange and ghastly in 
the half light of the court, and stranger and more 
ghastly yet in the more than half darkness of the gal- 
lery. The jury rose, and a low inarticulate buzz arose 
in the court — the sound of many voices whispering. 
After a time the jury retired. Then the buzzing grew 


84 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


louder. The lawyers leaned over the seats and laughed 
and talked gayly. The spectators talked to one another 
in loud whispers. The policemen alone stood silent 
at their posts. One of them put a chair into the 
dock, and I sat down upon it and waited. I felt 
stunned at first. The address of the judge had actually 
confused me. Little by little, as he spoke, I had begun 
to lose consciousness of my own identity. As he pro- 
duced the proofs, arranged them one by one, and con- 
nected them with myself, my own defence seemed to 
melt away from me. More and more, as he went on, I 
seemed to identify myself with the criminal, and almost 
to believe that the actions sworn to must, after all, have 
been my actions. When he finished I could hardly 
understand why there should have been a delay. I 
could scarcely fancy anything left for the jury to 
discuss. 

Yaguely these thoughts drifted through my mind as 
I waited : vaguely I looked around the crowded court 
and caught the sound of the murmured whispers. The 
position was a terrible one, but I was fast losing con- 
scious hold upon it. The court, with its crowded seats, 
its dim swimming atmosphere, and its flaring yellow 
lights, was like a place seen in a dream. The faces 
round me were no longer real faces, but seemed to 
come up like phantoms, now standing out clear and 
threatening, now retreating vague and indistinct into 
the distance, a mere vista of imaginary faces. The 
whispers that filled the air had a ghostly sound, but no 
meaning to my ears, and served only to increase the 
general impression of unreality. Still the jury didn’t 
return, and still I sat and waited. Once or twice the 
thought came to me for a moment, “ They are actually 
in doubt about hanging me.” I was only vaguely im- 


IN THE STORM 


85 


patient of the long delay; for the most part I was 
merely absorbed in my fancies. 

At last there was a stir in the court. Hasty steps 
sounded in the passage; a crowd of faces turned 
simultaneously towards the same door, and then, slowly, 
solemnly, one by one, the jury came back. 

They took their seats and looked about them. They 
were the centre of observation now. Like the rest, I 
looked at them. Like the rest, I suppose, I wondered 
what they had come to say. It didn’t seem to concern 
me much, but somehow I felt curious. Then there was 
another stir in the court. The judge was coming back, 
and all eyes were turned upon him. Like the rest, I 
looked at him, too. Like the rest, I seemed to myself to 
expect him to do something. He did nothing but set- 
tle himself in his seat and nervously shuffle the papers 
before him. Then some one asked the jury if they 
had agreed on their verdict. Then the voice said 
again, “How say you, gentlemen of the jury, is the 
prisoner guilty or not guilty?” The man — he was a 
little man with kindly eye and a snub nose — looked at 
me nervously for an instant. Every man in the jury- 
box did the same, and I looked at them. Then he said, 
“ Guilty !” I thought his voice trembled as he said it. 

The officer of the court turned to the judge, who sat 
behind him, and said something. The judge gathered 
his gown around him and nervously fingered the wig 
on his head. Then he leaned forward in his chair and 
looked at me. I looked at him in return. 

The verdict had scarcely been any shock to me, I 
think, and once more the whole scene had ceased to 
have any personal significance. I knew that I was 
standing there. I knew that the judge was speaking. 
I felt that the eyes of everybody in the court were 

8 


86 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


fixed upon my face, but it didn’t somehow seem to be 
mine at all. I found myself sympathizing with George. 
I even found myself wondering what he felt. I can’t 
say I heard what the judge said. His words passed 
me by like most of the words we hear in dreams. They 
were a sound, and they seemed to fill up the picture, 
but they conveyed no ideas to my mind; or, if they 
did, the ideas were at once wiped out by others that 
crowded after them. 

I stood staring at the judge until a hand was laid on 
my arm. It was not rough nor unkindly, but it was 
urgent, — I was to go. I glanced round ; there, in front 
of me, was the judge leaning back in his chair, taking 
a black silk cap from his head. There were the jury 
looking, I thought, anxious and ill at ease. There was 
the moving background of human faces looking only* 
curious. I looked at it all as one looks for the last 
time on a picture. I turned away quietly and followed 
the policeman. I was a condemned criminal! 


CHAPTEK IV. 


Like a man in a dream, I heard the sentence ; like a 
man in a dream, I followed the policeman. To this 
day I can distinctly recall the scene, but it is still like 
a scene from a dream. Terrible as the issue was to me, 
it affected me very little at the moment. Quietly I left 
the dock, a condemned man ; quietly, as a condemned 
man, I went back to'prison. I noticed little things, I 
remember, although my mind had grown dull to great 
ones. A poor woman, with a ragged child in her arms, 
stands out from the picture, now. She held him up as 
we passed, and # told r him to look at the “gentleman 
highwayman.” I remember looking at her thin white 
face and sunken eyes, and wondering whether she was 
as hungry as she looked. I noticed that I was not 
taken back to my old cell when we reached the prison. 
I had grown accustomed to that cell, as one grows ac- 
customed to anything, and I asked the warden why I 
was moved. The man looked at me as if surprised at 
the question. 

“ Why, sir, we always move them, you know,” he 
said. 

“ Oh, indeed,” I replied ; but I had not an idea what 
he meant. The new cell was larger than the old one, 
but the lamp that shone in from the corridor above the 
door was a dim one, and gave the place a weird and 
ghostly look. Mechanically I sat down on the bed, 
The warden stood looking at me curiously for a mo- 
ment; then he spoke again, — 


87 


88 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“Would you like anything particular for supper?” 

“ No,” I said, wearily, looking at him with some sur- 
prise. “No. Why do you ask me to-night ?” 

He looked at me still. I thought he was going to 
answer my question, but he did not. Instead of that 
he only stared at me harder, and a strange wondering 
look passed over his face. Then he spoke again, — 

“Would you like to see the chaplain to-night?” 

“ Not that I know of. Why should I ?” 

He said no more, but turned slowly away, and left 
me. His key turned in the door with a harsh creak 
that grated on my nerves. His footsteps sounded hol- 
low on my ear as step by step they receded and the 
echoes died away. I was alone. 

I was alone, yet not alone. As I looked round mo 
vaguely in the dim yellow light that half lighted up 
my cell, its dimness seemed alive with figures. My 
father, with his white hair and his stern gray eyes, 
seemed to gaze at me sorrowfully from one corner. 
My brother seemed to pass and repass across the darker 
end of the cell, — now looking as he did when we were 
at Eton together, again as I had seen him later when I 
was at Oxford, and then again as he had been described 
by the witnesses at the trial. Other faces, some strange, 
some familiar, would peer at me out of the darkness, 
shifting, changing, disappearing, as I stared at them, 
like the shadows from a magic lantern, — now it was 
the judge, now the counsel for the crown, now the fore- 
man of the jury, and now again the thin hunger-worn 
face of the woman who had held up the child to see me. 

Food was brought in and left for me, but I paid no 
attention to it. To watch the procession of figures, to 
follow the strange fragments of memories of the past, 
that unconsciously stirred my mind, was employment 


IN THE STORM 


89 


enough for me. I must have grown exhausted at last 
and sunk to sleep, quiet and dreamless, as far as I can 
remember. 

It was late when I awoke, for I had not been dis- 
turbed. I can remember wondering why I had not 
been made to get up at the usual hour, and it was not 
till I looked round on the strange cell in which I found 
myself that I remembered the trial of the day before. 
For a moment I found myself wondering how it had 
ended. Then the words of the turnkey came back to 
me for the first time, and their meaning grew clear to 
my mind. I had been sentenced to death, and this was 
the condemned cell. 

It came on me with a shock, yet, strange to say, at 
the moment it suggested no thought of fear. The con- 
fusion which had so often oppressed my mind through- 
out the case, oppressed it still. I was shocked, indeed, 
but I was shocked for George’s sake, not my own. 
“So young!” I found myself whispering to myself. 
“ So young, and condemned to die !” Yet the feeling 
was one of pity only. The old affection for my twin 
brother was not gone, but it no longer attached to the 
man. The brother who had been the leader and friend 
of childhood and boyhood, the lad who had been the 
hero of my school days, was still there, — somewhere in 
the background. The criminal who had disgraced our 
name, and whose crime, if known, would have killed 
our father with utter shame, was wholly distinct. 

I had not undressed, so I rose at once. The weather 
had improved, the swimming foggy atmosphere of yes- 
terday had gone, and there was even a wan gleam of 
sunshine falling on the floor near the grated window. 
Mechanically I began to pace up and down the cell, 
mechanically I paused whenever I reached the little 
8 * 


90 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


patch of sunshine on the floor. The monotonous mo- 
tion seemed to lend monotony to my ideas. The one 
constant impression was that some one was to die, and 
to die young. The one constant sensation was a sensa- 
tion of vague pity for the misfortune. 

I was interrupted by the turnkey, who opened the 
door and brought in breakfast. The man was civil, 
and urged me to eat. I felt no hunger, but to get rid 
of him I promised, and he left me. It was strange, but 
this man’s face only added one more to the ghostly 
faces that haunted me now. It was friendly, but it 
was inquisitive, like the face of a man who expected 
to see something curious when he looked at me. 

I ate my breakfast and found that I had been hun- 
gry, but the eating made no difference to my thoughts. 
Still the same hazy procession of scenes and faces 
passed before me : still the same vague pity for some 
one who was and yet was not my brother George, filled 
my mind, forming a heavy background to the faces. 

I had not interrupted my walk to eat. The exercise 
— four steps and then a short one, then four steps and 
a short one back — seemed to give me a sense of relief, 
or at least to keep my mind from growing wholly 
stagnant. Then I was interrupted again. The door 
opened, and behind the turnkey were two figures. One 
was the governor, the other — I had seen him in chapel 
on Sundays — was the chaplain. The turnkey stood 
aside to let them pass, and said something to the gov- 
ernor as he did so. I nodded to my visitors, but I 
walked on. The governor was an elderly man with 
white hair but a figure that was still soldierly and up- 
right. 

“Jenkins,” he said, “I have brought the chaplain to 
see you, and I have a message to give you.” 


IN THE STORM 


91 


I stopped in my walk when he spoke. I looked at 
the chaplain. I waited to hear the message. He looked 
at me for an instant and then went on. 

“You will listen to what the chaplain has to say to 
you. I hope you will profit by it. The message I have 
to give you is a question. Mr. Marvin wants to know 
what you did with the diamond ring. He is anxious to 
•recover it, and of course you can gain nothing now by 
concealment.” 

As he began to speak I looked at him. As he went 
on my look seemed to affect him. The color, rose a 
little in his cheek as he spoke. His tone grew more 
stern as he went on. I looked at him still when he 
stopped. 

“ Mr. Marvin ?” I said, “ I don’t know Mr. Marvin. I 
never saw his ring.” 

The governor’s cheek grew redder, and his voice 
grew sharp and angry. 

“ Come, come, my man ! What have you to gain by 
all this now ! I could excuse acting before, but it is 
quite thrown away here.” He glanced round the cell 
as he spoke. 

II Pardon me, sir, I fail to understand you. What I 
have just said is the truth. Mr. Marvin is a stranger to 
me. If he has lost a ring, he had better apply to the 
man who took it.” 

As I spoke I stared him full in the face. As I ceased 
I could see his eye grow troubled and the calm fade 
gradually from his face. 

“And you positively deny all knowledge of the 
ring ?” he said, after a moment’s pause. 

“ Sir, you are speaking to a gentleman, I hope, and 
you insult him by your question.” 

The governor looked at the chaplain, and the chap- 


92 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


lain at the governor, and both shook their heads 
gravely. 

“ This is a case for you, sir, if any one can hope to 
be of use in such a case” And the governor shrugged 
his shoulders and left the cell. 

I was glad he was gone, and I at once resumed my 
walk. The chaplain sat down on my bed and looked at 
me. The turnkey, who had brought a stool, sat down 
upon it just inside the door. 

These men disturbed me, and I felt annoyed at their 
intrusion. Neither of them spoke. After several turns 
up and down the cell I stopped opposite the chaplain 
and looked at him. He was a thin, hard-featured man, 
with black hair and dull beady-looking eyes. 

“ Pardon me, sir,” I remarked, “ but to what do I owe 
the pleasure of your company ?” 

“ I have come, my young friend,” he said, and then 
he paused and looked at me solemnly, as if he expected 
to impress me greatly by the look. 

“ So I see,” I replied, impatiently. “ But as you 
came uninvited, perhaps you will be good enough to 
mention your business and go.” 

He was evidently taken by surprise, and it was 
equally evident that he was annoyed. His sallow cheek 
flushed, and there was an angry and offended sparkle 
in his fishy eyes. 

“ Are you aware of your position ?” he said, angrily. 

“ Certainly. And of yours ; you are sitting on my 
bed.” 

He rose indignantly, and stared at me in mingled 
anger and astonishment. 

“ Oh, hardened young man !” he exclaimed. “ Can 
you jest when death is approaching? Can you indulge 
in scoffs and ribaldry when judgment is at the door 1” 


m THE STORM 


93 


I did not understand him in the least, and I made no 
effort to do so. The man was ungentlemanly and dis- 
tasteful to me, and my one desire was to get rid of him. 

“ I don’t quite catch your meaning, reverend sir,” I 
said, “ but I am obliged to you for getting off my bed. 
As I had rather be alone, you will confer a further 
favor on me by leaving the room.” 

“ Good heavens !” he exclaimed, throwing up his 
hands with a theatrical gesture, “ can this be possible ? 
I leave you, hardened sinner, now ; yet I will return if 
you send for me. Do so to-day. To-morrow it will be 
too late.” 

“ Thank you ,” I replied ; “ I don’t think I need tres- 
pass further on your kindness to-day, and I fail to 
understand your reference to to-morrow.” 

He stared at me for an instant as if paralyzed by my 
audacity, then he turned and left the cell, muttering to 
himself as he did so, — 

“And that man will be hanged at nine to-morrow 
morning !” 

The turnkey grinned, and, muttering, “ Game enough, 
anyhow I” picked up his stool and followed him. Once 
more the door shut with a hollow crash. The bolt 
creaked harshly as it shot in the lock. The footsteps 
died away in distant echoes through the long corridors. 
I was left alone. 

But his last muttered words remained. “ That man 
will be hanged at nine to-morrow morning.” I repeated 
them over to myself, vaguely, at first ; then with more 
intelligent meaning ; then with full understanding. 

It was of me — me, Charles Fortescue — that the words 
had been spoken. The confusion cleared from my brain. 
Memory of the past returned ; perception of the present 
came to me; apprehension of the future seemed to 


94 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


advance upon me dark and menacing. I stopped in 
my walk. I staggered. I sat down on my bed. It 
came upon me like a revelation. My visions were swal- 
lowed up in the present reality, and the reality was 
frightful. Before the trial I had indeed thought of the 
possibility of this ; but it was only as a possibility, an 
idea without substance. Now it had substance enough. 
Hanged to-morrow? No one who has not known 
what it is to see death approach him can even imagine 
what the feeling is like. No one who has not blushed 
at the bare idea of ignominy for another, can imagine 
even faintly the horror of its certainty when it attaches 
to himself. 

To die ! Yes, I could do that as well as another. In 
the wild rush of the battle-field, with the shouts of the 
combatants in one’s ears, it would hardly be an effort to 
die. In the deadly breach with the stormers, or in the 
wild tempest, battling for life and meeting death instead, 
the thing seemed easy. But, hanged to-morrow ! The 
idea was ghastly, horrible, incredible. 

How long I sat face to face with despair I do not 
know. It must have been hours, because once more I 
was roused by the turnkey bringing food. I looked up at 
him and nodded. He stopped and looked at me. Per- 
haps my face told of the struggle of the last few hours. 

“ Is there anything I can do for you, sir ?” he said, 
kindly. 

“ Nothing, I thank you.” 

He looked carefully round the cell as if in search of 
something, then he left me without a word. 

The short day wore on. The little patch of sunlight 
had long ago travelled to the wall and disappeared. 
The gray shadows of the evening crept into the cell 
and stayed there. I was conscious of each change, 


IN THE STORM 


95 


yet, in another sense, I was conscious of none. As I 
sat there my life passed before me in a long procession 
of events. None of them were striking events but the 
last. Yet they came on in slow, unbroken order, like an 
array of ghosts. Scenes in which I had taken part, 
people I had known, places familiar to me, all came in 
turn ; all glared at me ; all passed me slowly by. 

I did not think : I merely reflected. Hour after 
hour I was conscious only of the long succession of 
images cast on my mind and thrown back as from a 
mirror. I looked at them as they came. Sometimes I 
looked back at them regretfully as they passed, but I 
drifted onward to the next, helplessly, aimlessly. 

It grew dark, and the prison lamps were lighted. 
The turnkey brought my supper and remained with 
me in the cell. I looked at him as he settled himself 
in a chair beside the door, but I said nothing. I seemed 
to know why he stayed. I had heard of it before. I 
seemed to whisper it to myself. “ They don’t leave 
men alone on the last night.” I wondered why not, in 
a vague way ; but I said nothing. 

The clock struck ten. Could it be possible ? Ten ! 
and at nine to-morrow ! I had heard of innocent men 
being executed, but somehow till then I had never 
thought what it meant. Now I knew. Ten ! and 
before ten struck again the justice of the Creator 
would be impugned by the murder of an innocent man 
with every circumstance of ignominy, for the crime of 
the guilty ! Could it be possible ? 

I paced my narrow cell with feet that never tired. 
The minutes beat themselves out with the beats of my 
heart and the heavy pulsations of my brain. One by 
one the hours struck : each heavy stroke like the 
breaking of another link that bound me to life. I felt 


96 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


them in my brain as if something there was jarred at 
each blow and would break with the succeeding stroke. 

And so the awful night wore on. Gradually the 
motion seemed to affect me. Gradually the acuteness 
of my feelings grew more dull, and the sharp physical 
pain of these reverberating strokes of time grew 
blunted. Still I walked on. The outside lamp burned 
dimmer and dimmer, my turnkey companion nodded 
more and more heavily as he vainly tried with heavy 
lids to follow me in my endless walk. When twelve 
struck, the agony was as sharp as a torture. The stroke 
of “ one” seemed to fall like a lash upon my aching 
brain. I seemed to myself to have waited for ages for 
the stroke of “ two,” yet when it came I hardly started. 
Then 1 began to think of “ three.” I pictured to my- 
self its sound. I listened to its long echoes as it crept 
through the corridors, and died into whispers on the 
stairs a hundred times before it really came. When it 
did come at last I was disappointed. It sounded dull 
and muffled on my ear; it made hardly an impression 
on my brain. Was I falling asleep? I felt myself to 
make sure ; but no, I was awake. How long would 
it be until “four?” I counted the seconds until they 
grew into minutes, the minutes until they ate away the 
hour. Thought of the past had ceased to trouble me ; 
thought of the future beyond the stroke of “ four” 
seemed beyond my power. Literally, I lived in the 
present ; each moment was everything to me. 

Dimmer and yet more dim grew the lamp over the 
door. The shadows of the cell grew darker and more 
black each minute. Still I paced on as before ; I 
counted the seconds in a whisper; I marked off the 
minutes on the fingers of my hands. 

At last I got confused. First I lost count of the 


IN THE STOKM 


97 


minutes, and tried in vain to recall how many I had 
marked. Then I faltered in counting the seconds. The 
numbers grew mixed as I repeated them, and I found 
myself repeating them over again. Would “ four” 
never strike ? I stopped counting. I listened for the 
sound till I could fancy it had passed. There was 
nothing but the heavy breathing of my companion in 
the cell, the weird sob of the heavy air along the cor- 
ridors as I strained my ears to listen. 

Still I walked on, though at times I staggered as I 
walked. The walls of the cell began to look strange 
and distant. The shadows gathered in the corners and 
assumed the proportions of abysses. The dim light 
above the door retreated to the distance of a star. 
Would it never strike? 

I seemed to know when it was really coming. I 
stopped in my walk — I listened. Then with one long 
shudder it came through the darkness. “ One,” I heard 
it fall, but I heard no more. As it struck, something 
in my brain seemed to crack — I staggered. It was the 
last thing I heard. The rest is blank. 

I awoke. Bright sunlight was streaming on my face. 
A fresh breeze, bearing a scent as of a thousand flowers, 
blew on my cheek. Before me, dancing, glistening, 
sparkling, were the waters of an ocean more intensely 
blue than I had ever seen in dreams. Far away, like a 
slate-colored cloud on the horizon, were the outlines of 
land. Beside me stood a man curiously dressed in 
coarse cloth, and holding me by the arm. I looked at 
him vaguely and wonderingly for an instant ; then I 
said, pointing to the cloud, “ What is that ?” 

He looked at me quickly, and a curious spasm seemed 
to cross his face for a moment as he replied, “ Australia, 
mate !” 
e g 


9 


CHAPTER V. 


THE VOYAGE OP THE TORRES VEDRAS. PROM THE 
NOTES OP JOHN SIMPSON, M.D. 

It will be just twenty-five years next month since I 
began my book on the “Philosophy of Error,” and 
here I am at this very moment affording a new illus- 
tration of error on my own account. As if it wasn’t 
enough to have a book on hand that has already cost 
me twenty-five years of hard work, and for anything I 
ca,n see may cost me twenty-five more, if I should last 
as long, which isn’t likely, I must needs agree to write 
what I Can remember of events that happened fifteen 
years ago. But there. Your true philosopher is never 
wise for himself; and it’s rather a comfort, after all, to 
be a fool in good company. 

My book was at the bottom of the whole business. 
If it hadn’t been for the “Philosophy of Error” I 
might never have left the Forty-seventh. If I hadn’t 
left the Forty-seventh I should never have gone to 
Australia. If I hadn’t gone to Australia, some, at least, 
of the things I have to tell would never have happened, 
and I should not have been asked to write any of them 
down. Pardon my habit of going to the root of the 
matter, and thank the “ Philosophy of Error” and not 
me for it. 

I had been twenty-five years in the service. I had 
been at Talavera with Wellington, and had stood on the 
hill at Albuera when Beresford hurled back the French 
98 


IN THE STORM 


99 


from its bloody slopes. By the by, I missed seeing the 
final charge, because I was at the moment trying a 
little experiment on a man whose skull was split by a 
sabre. It didn’t exactly succeed, for the man died, but 
it was interesting, and I missed the charge. I was in 
the hospitals at Lisbon and in the field at Vittoria. I 
crossed the Pyrenees with the regiment and had charge 
of the hospital at Toulouse. 

Talk of errors, I should hope I saw errors enough 
to last a man a lifetime, and illustrate half a dozen 
philosophies. The Waterloo campaign was mere butch- 
ery, and I was glad when it was over. Of course it 
was good for practice, but one may get too much prac- 
tice. What I wanted was time to think out my philos- 
ophy. You can’t think out a philosophy or anything 
else when every limb you amputate gets jostled as it 
goes out of the hospital by a case coming in with 
another that wants amputating. 

Yet I don’t know that I found garrison life much 
better, and as for India, why, it is simply a fraud, 
gigantic, I admit, but a fraud all the same. They say 
Indian religions were all philosophy. I shouldn’t won- 
der. From what I saw of the religions I can form a 
tolerable idea of the philosophy. Don’t tell me. Phi- 
losophy is the creation of reason, and of course it can 
flourish only in a reasonable climate. 

It was the colonel who suggested it at last, and if 
ever the world should be enlightened by the “Philosophy 
of Error,” the world will owe the benefit to the colonel’s 
suggestion. I don’t know whether he was actuated by 
a pure desire for the world’s good. It is just possible, 
at least I have thought so once or twice since, that he 
may have thought he had enough of philosophy. I 
suppose we had discussed it pretty often. An hour or 


100 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


so after mess of an evening for four or five years isn’t 
much for philosophy, of course, but it might seem 
enough to the man one was talking to. At any rate 
the colonel suggested Australia as the very place for 
me. 

The idea struck me at once. A fine climate, a new 
country. Forty thousand convicts, guilty probably of 
more errors than any other forty thousand Englishmen 
alive, were available for illustration, and a new country 
must be the very place to start a new philosophy. My 
country owed me a pension fbr my services, and I owed 
humanity a new philosophy. I applied to my country 
to do her duty, and I prepared to do mine. 

For a wonder, matters went smoothly, and by the 10th 
of May, 1834, I was ready to start. It wasn’t difficult 
in those days to get a passage to Australia at the gov- 
ernment expense, and I had found no delay in getting 
a ship to go in. She was the “ Torres Vedras,” and she 
was to sail on the 13th May, with convicts for Port 
Jackson. When I saw the ship in the docks I liked the 
look of her, and thought she was likely to be comfort- 
able. For anything I know she may have been ; I can 
speak for her passengers — they were not. 

On the evening of the 13th I went on board at 
Gravesend. I have made a good many voyages in my 
time, and the error of going on board too soon is an 
error I never commit. She was ready to sail when I 
went aboard, and she was off the Foreland when I 
came on deck next morning. 

When one has charge of anything he can’t know too 
soon what it is. I had charge of convicts, and I made 
it my first business to see them. We had a captain, 
an ensign, and sixty soldiers on board, and they had 
three hundred and eighty-seven convicts to look after. 


IN THE STORM 


101 


I asked the captain — his name was Malet — to have the 
convicts mustered for inspection. The captain had 
been to India, so he naturally passed the order to the 
ensign. The ensign had not been to India, but he 
could profit by a good example. The ensign passed the 
word to the senior sergeant, and the sergeant mustered 
the convicts. 

They were mustered in the “convict pen,” as it was 
called ; that is, the part of the deck amidships that 
was fenced off to give the prisoners air and exercise. 
On the “ Torres Vedras” it might give them air, when 
air happened to be plentiful ; it certainly could not give 
them exercise. At first sight I confess I didn’t like it. 
At the very first glance I felt a suspicion of trouble. 

The convicts were probably no worse than others, 
but they certainly were not attractive. As I walked 
slowly down the ranks and looked at them, I confess I 
thought badly of my charge. I had expected to see 
evidences of crime. What I mainly noticed were signs 
of brutality. The faces were not all in themselves bad, 
but nearly all looked stupid and brutal. Near the end 
I came upon two that were different — so different that 
I stopped to inspect them more closely. 

The first was a young man, tall and powerfully built, 
with jet black hair and eyes of the same color. The 
eyes were very remarkable, and caught my attention 
at once. They looked at me, and yet I could have 
sworn they somehow didn’t see me. The other was 
nearly as young but of quite a different type, rather 
short and broad, with yellow hair and pleasant open blue 
eyes. I almost started to see such a face among a 
gang of convicts. 

I touched the tall man on the arm to attract his 
attention, and said, “ What is your name, my man ?” 

9 * 


102 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


He looked at me vaguely and doubtfully for a second 
or two, then he replied, “Jenkins, sir, Jenkins.” And 
then he muttered to himself in a low tone, “Yes, Jen- 
kins ; that’s it.” 

I turned from him to his neighbor, I suppose, with a 
look of inquiry, for the man put his two forefingers to 
his forehead and shook his head. 

“ Ah,” I said. “ And yours ?” 

“ Mayhew, sir, at home ; I’m 322 here, and he’s 
321.” He nodded towards his companion as he spoke. 

“ I see. And what brought you here, my man ?” 

“Along of poaching, sir.” 

“ Poaching!” I exclaimed. “You don’t say you are 
here for poaching ?” 

“No, sir, leastways they said not. You see there 
was a bit of a scrimmage, and Bill Hawkins, that’s the 
gamekeeper, he ups and hits me with his gunstock on 
the shoulder. So I hits him over the head with my 
stick. Down Bill goes ; 1 knowed he would, and sarve 
him right, too, for going for an old mate like that. 
Hows’ever they brings it in a murderous assault.” 

“Ah, I see; and Jenkins?” 

Somehow I didn’t like to ask the man himself: the 
strange look in his eyes seemed to hold me back. 

“321, sir? Well, I don’t rightly know about him. 
He don’t seem to know himself; leastways he don’t 
say; but they calls him the ‘gentleman highway- 
man.’” 

I looked at 321 again. Yes, so far at any rate they 
were right. Even in that place it was evident ; even 
under these hideous clothes it could not be mistaken. 
Whatever he had done, whatever crime had brought 
him there, he had come from the position of a gentle- 
man. 


IN THE STORM 


103 


Mechanically I finished my inspection and let them 
go. I returned to my cabin and sat down to think. 
After all, there is no pursuit like philosophy, and no 
subject for philosophy like the subject of error. Where- 
ever you may go, philosophy is an employment. Where- 
ever you may find yourself, you cannot want for 
examples of error. 


CHAPTER YI. 


The ship was overcrowded. That was the first error 
I noticed on board, and it was a serious one. We had 
two officers in the cabin, and sixty soldiers below. The 
officers, as a matter of course, had more than enough 
room, the soldiers rather less. In the forecastle we had 
in all twenty-nine sailors. Making allowance for the 
fact that sailors usually live like dogs on board ship 
and are in the open air three-fourths of their time, the 
dog-kennel they occupied might pass muster, if all 
went well. We started with three hundred and eighty- 
seven convicts, they were below amidships, and they 
had exactly the room and the air allowed for two hun- 
dred and fifty by the admiralty regulations, and for 
about one hundred and fifty according to nature. 

There is philosophy in everything, and there is error 
in most things. I found out the philosophy of this 
business before I had been three days on board. I sus- 
pected the error a good deal sooner, but I didn’t appre- 
ciate it fully till some time later. Experience is a great 
philosopher, and experience had taught the captain of 
the “Torres Yedras” how to make money out of con- 
victs and how to bribe government inspectors. Ordi- 
nary goods cannot be much compressed without in- 
jury, but ordinary convicts may be squeezed just as 
much as human nature will bear. The government 
chartered the ship to carry convicts and stores, and 
the government paid the owners for doing this ; but 
for all that she would carry after she was full, some- 
104 


IN THE STORM 


105 


body else would pay the captain. The name for this in 
English is “ unprincipled greed” — that was the name I 
gave it to the skipper along with a piece of my mind 
generally. Its name in Philosophy is “ irregular ac- 
quisitiveness.” It has a chapter to itself in the third 
book of the “ Philosophy of Error.” That chapter was 
a great comfort to me at the time. Unfortunately, it 
was hardly so good for the convicts as more air would 
have been. 

You can’t take much personal interest in three hun- 
dred and eighty-seven strangers all at once. Even the 
fact that they are convicts doesn’t make it very much 
easier. While they were below one could hardly see 
them in the half darkness, through the dense air which 
made one gasp and cough on first trying to breathe it. 
When they were in the place fenced off for them on 
deck they were an almost un distinguishable mass of 
wretched and savage-looking humanity. So far as I 
could see, there were only two exceptions — the tall 
convict with the black hair and the strange black eyes 
that looked at without noticing one, who answered to 
the name of Jenkins, and the short convict with the 
yellow hair and blue eyes who answered to the name 
of May hew. One must interest oneself in some one 
when in contact with a crowd. I interested myself in 
Jenkins and Mayhew. 

I think I liked Mayhew best, but I was certainly 
most interested in Jenkins. I had ascertained that 
Mayhew had told me correctly what ho was himself 
convicted for. I found out that he was only partly 
correct about his companion. “ For highway robbery, 
with murder. Sentenced to death, commuted to trans- 
portation for life.” This was the entry against 321 
in the books. This was all that remained of the 


106 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


history of John Jenkins. This was his fresh start- 
ing-point in life. A melancholy start, a heavy handi- 
cap. 

Murder. I looked at him curiously as he leaned 
against the open fence of the palisades which stood, 
like his crime materialized, between him and humanity. 
His large eyes were fixed vacantly on the white-crested 
waves that rushed past the ship. There was intense 
melancholy expressed in his attitude and on his face. 
Murder — I repeated to myself — murder and robbery. 
No. I felt sure there was a mystery, a mistake. The 
“ Philosophy of Error” was well advanced, but it hadn’t 
come near the point of accounting for the anomaly of 
that face set opposite to that sentence. Should I have 
to begin a new chapter on “ Irreconcilable facts ?” 

“ Doctor, don’t you think you had better see Miss 
Malcolm ?” It was the would-be sprightly voice of Mrs. 
Malet’s maiden sister that interrupted my reverie. It 
was the sprightly fan of the same evergreen spinster 
which tapped me lightly on the arm. I confess I am 
not fond of sprightly spinsters. I had not at that time 
made up my mind whether to give them a chapter to 
themselves in the “ Philosophy of Error.” Miss Tupper 
went far to decide me. She was so very sprightly; 
and she was such an unmistakable errror. 

“Miss Malcolm,” I replied, “who is she? I never 
heard of her before.” 

“ Oh, she’s a young lady passenger ; quite one of our- 
selves, you know.” I looked at her. She had light 
hair, and washed-out blue eyes. A complexion with 
the color ingrained in delicate tracery on the cheeks, 
and the gentle crow's feet of forty years’ growth at 
least at the corners of her eyes. I had no anxiety to 
be introduced to “one of ourselves.” Another illustra- 


IN THE STORM 


107 


tion of error coming under the head of “ Preconcep- 
tions,” Chapter III., Book II. 

Miss Malcolm shared one of the stern cabin state- 
rooms with Miss Tupper, but she shared little else with 
her. She really had the youth which Miss Tupper had 
parted with twenty years before, and she really pos- 
essed the good looks which Miss Tupper tried to believe 
she had, but had never had. There was no need to 
classify Miss Malcolm : she didn’t come within the 
“ Philosophy of Error” at all. 

There was nothing seriously the matter with her, and 
she was soon about the deck, the one young, pretty, 
and cheerful soul on board the “Torres Yedras.” 
Otherwise we were not an attractive party. The skip- 
per was a greedy, close-fisted old Scotchman, as excel- 
lent as a seaman as he was disagreeable as a man. 
Captain Malet was an easy-going officer enough, caring 
for nothing but his comfort and his grog. His wife 
was Miss Tupper over again, only she was Miss Tupper 
half a dozen years younger, and likewise Miss Tupper 
with her destiny fulfilled, Miss Tupper successful in the 
acquisition of a husband, and Miss Tupper possessed of 
a son — a child some six years of age. There was not a 
great deal of choice. If Miss Malcolm had been far 
less attractive in herself than she was, she would still 
have attracted by contrast. If she had been much less 
interesting for her own sake, one must have found her 
interesting in self-defence. 

Before we had been at sea a fortnight I had made up 
my mind to it. I was booked for four or five months 
of bad company ; nobody worth observing in the cabin 
but a girl of eighteen going to join her father in 
Australia; nobody worth taking an interest in amid- 
ships but a poacher and a highwayman out of three 


108 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


hundred and eighty-seven convicts. There was noth- 
ing for it but to teach the girl the “ Philosophy of 
Error,” and, as far as I could manage it, to lighten the 
misery of my highwayman and my poacher amid- 
ships. 

I was in error again, as usual — under the heading 
“Hasty Anticipations,” Chapter IY., Book II. The 
first thing that happened was an accident which no- 
body could have foreseen. The second was no accident, 
and I had foreseen it myself. It was on the twentieth 
day out that the accident happened. The weather was 
fine, but the breeze was strong and a heavy sea was 
running. The day had been very warm, and I had 
insisted on the prisoners being kept on deck as long as 
there was any daylight. The place fenced off for 
them on deck was too small for exercise, but even 
greed could not shut out air from it. What stupidity 
could do it had done. It was fenced off from the rest 
of the ship by a palisade about eight feet high — the 
lower two or three feet solid, the upper part open, so 
that it looked like the bars of a wild beast’s cage. 
Nowhere did it reach to the bulwarks. It came to 
within about two feet of the side and then ran parallel 
with the bulwarks ; and on each side was a platform 
about a foot or eighteen inches below the bulwarks to 
enable the sailors to get fore and aft the ship. 

I was perhaps wrong in saying that Miss Malcolm 
was the only young and pretty creature on board. 
Mrs. Malet’s little boy was both young and pretty as 
children go, but he was not cheerful. He was a quiet, 
solitary child, and the convicts seemed to weigh on his 
spirits. His one pleasure and his only occupation 
seemed to be watching them, and he might always be 
found in some place which commanded a view of the 


IN THE STORM 


109 


“pen.” That evening he was perched upon the bul- 
warks close to the main shrouds, his feet on the plat- 
form, his eyes fixed on the groups of convicts hanging 
about listless and sullen inside the enclosure. I fancy 
he was looking at Jenkins, in whom he seemed, like the 
rest of us, to take a special interest. 

How it happened I don’t know, but suddenly there 
was a sway of the ship, and as suddenly a shriek of 
terror, and the child was gone. I rushed to the side in 
time to see a broad hat and long, fair curls being swept 
past the ship on the crest of a wave. I looked, but I 
was helpless. I couldn’t swim a stroke, and if I could 
it would have seemed too hopeless a task in the fading 
light and amongst these rushing waves. Suddenly I 
heard a scrambling sound behind me, followed instantly 
by a rush and a splash ; and I was conscious that a 
dark body — the body of a man — had passed me and 
plunged headlong into the ocean. A wild confusion 
followed. Orders being shouted ; sailors rushing to obey 
them; sails flapping with a report like artillery; and 
the ship shaking and quivering like a living creature in 
terror. Then passengers, soldiers, sailors, and even 
convicts, crowded to the side to watch. For myself, I 
had never taken my eyes off the sea. The heaving, 
rushing waves, that leaped and curled and broke, 
seemed to me for the moment to be living things. It 
was a struggle for life, the struggle of the few against 
the many, of the weak against the strong. My eyes 
seemed glued to the waves. I could see nothing but 
the place where I last saw the child, and the spot grow- 
ing every moment dimmer and more distant, where the 
dark figure of his would-be rescuer breasted the bil- 
lows. 

The ship had stopped, shivered, come round to the 
10 


110 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


wind ; her sails flapping, her cordage flying loose, and 
yet I followed that dark figure through it all. The 
waves rolled between us and I lost him ; then they 
sank down and I saw him again. It seemed to be an 
age — it could have been only a minute or two. 

At last. The sun had sunk below the horizon, yet 
still the strong bright glow in the western heaven 
turned to fire the white combs of the waves between it 
and the ship. And there, on the very crest of a huge, 
green roller, away to windward, we could see, lit up as 
with a halo — the dark head of the bold swimmer 
against the light of the western sky, and beside him 
the golden head of the child. 

A shout went up from the ship — a shout in which 
were joined the voices of all the sorts and conditions 
of men on board the “Torres Yedras.” Soldiers, 
sailors, convicts, joined in that shout. It was the cele- 
bration of humanity. It was the poean of man’s vic- 
tory over nature. 

Already a boat had been lowered, and we watched 
her through the dull, fading light, as she battled her 
way against the rushing waves. More and more the 
light faded from the face of the sea. Dimmer and 
more dim became the outlines of the boat when she 
mounted the crest of a wave and prepared to plunge 
into the shadow beyond. And so the light waned, and 
some of our confidence waned along with it. We 
waited; we could do nothing but wait. We strained 
our eyes over the wild moving waste of dull, gray- 
waters ; but, beyond the occasional flash of light from 
some breaking wave, we could see nothing. 

There was a hail at last. It was the boat coming 
back. There were answering hails. There was a con- 
fusion of shouts, a rushing to and fro of men with 


IN THE STORM 


111 


lanterns. At last, as the boat drew under our lee, came 
the answering shouts, “ Aye, aye, sir, all saved.” 

Till that moment I never thought who it might be 
that had recklessly risked his life to save the child. 
One of the sailors, I concluded, and I did not know one 
of them from the other. As I stood on the steps of 
the poop, holding on by the rail and peering into the 
darkness of the moving waters, I felt a light touch on 
my arm and the question was suggested, “ Who was it, 
doctor?” 

“ I don’t know,” I replied, still straining my eyes to 
see. “ A brave man, at any rate, Miss Malcolm.” 

“ Brave ! yes, more than brave. Poor little Georgie 1” 

Her clear young voice quivered with the tremulous- 
ness of tears. The boat came alongside. In the dark- 
ness I could just make her out as she rose and fell with 
the sea. 

“ Send down a sling ; the child’s fainted,” came up 
from below. “ Aye, aye.” 

The sling was sent down. Then it was pulled up 
again. Slowly it rose to the level of the bulwarks. A 
hand from below guided it as it came, and a dozen 
hands were stretched eagerly to receive it. I stepped 
hastily forward to look at the child. As I did so a fig- 
ure surmounted the bulwarks and emerged dark and 
dripping into the light of the lanterns. Captain Malet, 
who had sprung forward to take his boy, started back 
at the apparition and uttered an exclamation, — “ A 
convict, by God !” I, too, started as he spoke, for there, 
with the same tall, graceful figure clothed in the con- 
vict’s hideous uniform, the same melancholy face, and 
strange, far-away eyes, stood the man against whose 
name was registered the description, “highway rob- 
bery, with murder.” 


112 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


He stood there totally unconcerned, the only face 
without excitement. The captain hesitated. “ Who 
are you ?” he said, at last. 

“Jenkins, sir, Jenkins. Humber 321.” Then, in a 
vague, wondering sort of whisper, he repeated, “Yes, 
Jenkins.” 

“ How did you get out ?” 

“ I really don’t know, sir. It was necessary.” 

The captain hesitated again, and the instinct of dis- 
cipline prevailed. 

“ Guard, put that man back again. And see that no 
more escape.” 

There was a murmur from the sailors as the soldier 
laid his hand on the dripping arm of the convict, and 
all eyes turned from the unconscious child to his appar- 
ently equally unmoved deliverer. I glanced at the 
captain’s boy. “ Carry him down stairs and strip him. 
I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, as I hastily followed 
Humber 321. As I turned I almost stumbled against 
Miss Malcolm ; as I did so I noticed that she, too, was 
looking after that dark figure — that she, too, was think- 
ing of the mysterious convict. 


CHAPTEE Y II. 


The soldier on guard had just opened the gate into 
the convict’s enclosure. The soldier who grasped the 
arm of 321 was in the act of pushing him through it 
when I came up with them. 

“Halt there,” I said. Both soldier and convict 
paused. 

“ Turn him this way. Hold the lantern to his face.” 

The soldier turned him round with a rapid twist, and 
the guard held up his lantern. I looked him steadily 
in the face. His eye met mine, but with the same 
curiously distant look in it as before. It might have 
been fancy, it might have been my own excitement, but 
I thought there was something new there. I grasped 
the man’s wrist for an instant, but the pulse was full 
and vigorous. A little fast, perhaps, but not more than 
his recent exertions might fully account for. Still I 
looked at him doubtfully. 

“ Are there any beds in the hospital ?” I asked. 

“No, sir, and the skipper has filled it with spare 
sails.” 

“ Confound the skipper ! If he doesn’t clear it in the 
morning, I’ll throw his spare sails overboard. Well, 
321, take your wet clothes off and turn in at once.” 

I turned hastily away, and the gate clanged as it 
shut 321 into the convict pen. 

In the saloon all was excitement. Mrs. Malet and 
her sister had both, fortunately, been below while the 
danger lasted, and the first they knew of the accident 
h 10 * 113 


114 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


was seeing the child carried into the cabin wet and 
unconscious. Mrs. Malet immediately went into real 
hysterics, and her sister into an excellent imitation. 
All women are actors by nature; spinsters who are 
spinsters indeed are usually accomplished actors before 
they reach forty. Nothing like practice, after all. If 
youth would only hold out, they would be more dan- 
gerous at that age than ever before. 

I am not very sentimental, and the contrast between 
the people who had done nothing and the man who 
had done everything didn’t tend to improve my temper. 
The child’s case was the only real one, and I couldn’t 
be troubled with humbug. I told the captain to take 
his wife somewhere else, give her air, and sprinkle her 
with cold water and plenty of it. To Miss Malcolm’s 
question as to what she was to do with Miss Tupper, I 
only replied, “Let her alone. You have some sense, 
and I want you here.” I spoke loudly, I dare say. In 
spite of her hysterics, Miss Tupper must have heard 
me. In spite of her idiotic tears and laughter, she had 
sense enough to feel offended. Thank Heaven for that ! 
If the accident did nothing else, it offended Miss Tupper. 
If it had no other good result, it relieved me of Miss 
Tupper’s evergreen attentions. 

Under my directions, Miss Malcolm undressed Georgie, 
rubbed him well and put him to bed, better a great deal 
than his silly mother or his idiotic aunt could have done. 
The child soon got over the faint, which was caused by 
fright and exhaustion, and in another hour he fell 
asleep. Then I went back to 321. 

After some delay I was admitted into the convict’s 
enclosure, and, accompanied by a soldier with a lantern, 
descended to the lower deck. It was a warm night, 
and, although there was still a breeze on deck, little of 


IN THE STORM 


115 


it penetrated through the narrow hatchway. Below 
the heat was stifling, and the air felt thick and clotted 
as I faced it coming down from the deck. The place 
was in total darkness, but not in silence. As I paused 
before going down there came up a dull muffled sound, 
heavy, inarticulate, threatening, the sound of whispers 
suppressed by misery, the hum of wretchedness, heavy 
with curses. 

The soldier with the lantern went first, and I followed 
him. As the light showed itself, the muttering sank 
to a low growl. As we appeared, there was a move- 
ment of curiosity and a momentary hush of other 
sounds. I never was in a wild beast’s den. Indeed, 
except in the one recorded case of Daniel, I am under 
the impression that all such visits come strictly within 
the scope of the “ Philosophy of Error;” but I don’t 
think any wild beast’s den could be 60 horrible as this 
place was. 

I had seen it by day when the sunlight streamed 
through the open hatchway, and even then it was bad 
enough. Even then it was but a confusion of dens — 
a wilderness of lairs in which foul humanity might 
crouch out of sight. But at night ! The close, foul 
atmosphere, swimming and sweltering visibly in the 
dim yellow light of the lantern — the foulness and 
squalor which were partly visible, multiplied a hun- 
dred-fold to the imagination by the abyss of darkness 
which met the eyes and the low mutterings which 
reached the ears — this was horrible. 

We threaded our way among the bunks — shelves 
built on shelves from the deck below to the deck above. 
Every bunk a den ; every den tenanted by an inhuman 
specimen of humanity, with eyes that glared out upon 
us foul and threatening, as we slowly made our way 


116 THE TRACK OF A STORM 

towards the end where my guide told me I should find 
321. 

He was there. Stretched flat upon his back, still 
dressed in the clothes he had worn, he lay steaming 
and apparently asleep on the narrow shelf before me. 
I started. I had ordered him to undress, and as I 
looked I saw the absurdity of my order. At any rate 
he had not obeyed it. He was asleep. His long black 
eyelashes fell darkly on his cheek. His arm was thrown 
across his broad chest, and the long fingers of his hand 
moved restlessly as he lay. I put my hand on his arm. 
“Jenkins,” I said, “Jenkins!” His eyes opened sud- 
denly and looked at me. 

“ Who calls me? Jenkins, Jenkins. Yes, Jenkins is 
my name now. Yes, he was condemned and executed, 
too, and not a soul knows it. Oh, it was rare, rare ! 
Yes, sir, yes, Jenkins ; that’s my name, sir.” And his 
voice sank into a strange whisper as he spoke, while 
his eyes seemed to look over me and beyond at some- 
thing far away. 

I bent over him ; I touched his wrist lightly with 
my fingers. I laid my hand softly on his brow. He 
took no notice. He was whispering rapidly to himself, 
in a hollow muttering whisper, and he had evidently 
no knowledge of my presence. 

“ Good God !” I exclaimed, involuntarily, as I drew 
back. I glanced round me. In the darkness on every 
side of me I could make out heads, more or less distinct, 
peering through the shadows at me, and close beside 
me was my guide. “ What is it, sir ?” he whispered. 

“ Nothing, nothing,” I replied, hastily ; “ but we can 
be of no use to him to-night. Let him sleep. Sleep is 
the best thing for him.” 

Slowly we retraced our steps. Slowly we emerged 


IN THE STORM 


117 


into the fresh air above. We paused to draw a long 
breath when we reached the deck once more. 

“ Bad air that, sir,” said my companion, as we waited 
for the guard to unlock the gate. 

“ Yes,” I said. “ Come with me and I’ll get you a 
glass of grog.” I went aft, to the wheel, where I 
knew I should find the skipper. He was there, leaning 
against the side, looking up at the sails. I put my 
hand on his arm quietly, and, as he turned hastily, I 
said, — 

“ Have the hospital cleared at daylight, captain.” 

“ What for ?” he asked, in a surly tone. 

“ For fever,” I replied. 

He stared at me. I could see his eyes in the star- 
light, and they looked large and startled. 

“ Fever ! Good heavens, doctor !” 

“Nothing of the sort, skipper. Bad air, and not 
nearly enough of that.” 

I was sure of it, and I was right. It was the fever. 
How could it be otherwise ? 

The hospital was cleared by daybreak in the morning, 
and 321 was removed there at once. I had no doubt 
of his fever overnight; I need hardly say I had none 
in the morning. He was delirious, and never for a 
moment ceased talking, in the low muttering tone 
which I regarded as a bad symptom. He had not been 
left long among the others, and his fever had only just 
set in. In any other circumstances, I should have 
been hopeful of stamping it out. In any other place 
I should not have expected it to spread. In our case 
I had no such hope. Our circumstances were fever 
circumstances ; our place was a hot-bed for disease. I 
was right. 

No. 321 was removed to the hospital at daybreak, in 


118 THE TRACK OF A STORM 

the morning, and before evening we had three others 
there. 

By the afternoon of the second day we had twelve 
cases, and the hospital was full to overflowing. I held 
a conference on deck with Captain Malet, the ensign, 
and the skipper, and I told them the plain truth, — the 
extra cargo must go overboard. The skipper was 
furious at the bare idea. 

“ What ? Throw over the cargo ? Not while I com- 
mand this ship,” he exclaimed. 

I turned to Captain Malet. “ In that case, captain, 
you had better prepare for the worst.” 

“ The worst, doctor ? What do you mean ?” 

“ This : in a week this will be a plague ship. In a 
fortnight what few of us are left will try to reach the 
nearest port. Yery likely we shall not be able.” 

“ Great heavens, doctor ! You don’t mean that ?” 

“ I do, Captain Malet, and, as I have work to do as 
long as I survive to do it, I must wish you good-evening.” 

“ Stay a moment, doctor. Are you really serious ?” 

“As serious as a man should be when he stands 
among nearly five hundred of his fellow-creatures, the 
only one who knows that he and they stand at the 
mouth of hell.” 

“ How many have you down now ?” asked Captain 
Malet, irresolutely, after a moment’s pause. 

“ Twelve to-night, and the hospital is overcrowded. 
At least twenty-four to-morrow, and no place to put 
them. If that happens in the black hole the skipper 
has left us, I wouldn’t give a farthing for your chance 
or mine.” 

Without another word, I turned and left them where 
they stood. I plunged into that reeking under-world 
of misery and disease. 


IN THE STOKM 


119 


What passed I don’t know. I only know that my 
words took effect. By ten next morning I had secured 
air and room at the expense of the skipper’s extra 
freight. 

It was time. The fever spread like wildfire, and 
raged like a furnace. I made one great hospital of 
the space I had secured, and in a week I had more 
than a hundred fever patients. I have seen fever in 
camp and garrison ; in the field where men fell and 
rotted like sheep, and in hospitals where the patients 
coming in jostled the dead going out for possession of 
a place in which to die. I have seen all these things, 
but the horror was as nothing compared with the next 
six weeks aboard the “ Torres Vedras.” Men sickened 
every hour, and we could scarcely give them water, 
not to speak of medicine. Men dropped and died, and 
we scarcely noted their numbers, and never inquired 
their names as we hurried them to the gangway and 
consigned them to the deep. 

The tropical sun poured down upon us like molten 
gold, and for days we lay becalmed, a groaning mass 
of suffering mortality. It is fifteen years ago now, yet 
still I look back upon it as the nightmare of my life. 
Two figures stand out against that lurid background 
of misery; two human beings vindicated humanity in 
that awful extremity. Mayhew the convict was one, 
Miss Malcolm, the delicate English girl, was the other. 
From the first Mayhew begged to be allowed to nurse 
his comrade, and having once begun he went on to 
nurse the rest. It was days before I would listen to 
Miss Malcolm’s entreaties to be allowed to help, but 
sheer necessity at last compelled me. When my soldier 
assistants sickened and fell ill, I gave way. 

I had thought to take an interest in this girl for 


120 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


want of any one else. I had dreamed of teaching her 
the “Philosophy of Error,” for want of any more in- 
telligent listener. Instead of this she compelled my 
admiration. Instead of my teaching her she taught 
me something that was almost better than the “ Phi- 
losophy of Error.” 

One error she cured me of forever. I learned in that 
chamber of horrors that the better instincts of human 
nature are never wholly dead. I learned that men, 
however degraded, have in them at bottom something 
manly still. So it was with our convicts. From the 
day when Miss Malcolm came into the hospital till the 
day when I forbade her to come again, no man in pos- 
session of his senses uttered one word in her presence 
she need have been ashamed to hear. 

Slowly the days followed one another in a procession 
so weird and strange that they looked then, and they 
look still, like the days of a dream. At last we glided 
out of the tropics into the region of rolling waves and 
life-giving breezes once more. At last the day came 
when there were no new cases. At last the time 
arrived when I could hope that we had heard the last 
deadly plunge from the gangway. 

Then I forbade Miss Malcolm the hospital ; I assured 
her that her self-imposed task had been nobly done. 
She looked round the dismal place, into which, how- 
ever, both sun and air found their way now in abun- 
dance, and the tears stood in her large grey eyes. 
“ Good-by, men,” she said, in her clear, soft voice. “ I 
hope soon to see you all on deck again.” 

“ Good-by, miss, good-by,” came back eagerly from 
fifty bed-places ; and from May hew, who sat beside the 
bed-place where 321 still lay, a hearty “ God bless ye.” 
Was I wrong in fancying that her eyes lingered longest 


IN THE STORM 


121 


on that distant corner by the port-hole? Was I mis- 
taken in thinking that the mystery of that silent 
patient, coming back so reluctantly from the grave, 
had got hold of Miss Malcolm, too ? I may have been ; 
at least she said nothing. Silently she left the hospital, 
and accompanied me on deck. 

The last man to recover was 321. Very slowly he 
came back from the grave. Slowly, fitfully, lingeringly, 
he gathered strength once more. Yet in the end he 
did. I kept him in the hospital long after every other 
patient had left it. He shrank from going on deck, 
and I humored his wish. Somehow I looked for a 
change in this man as the result of the fever. I felt 
disappointed when no change was visible. Morning 
after morning I looked into his eyes in hopes of seeing 
it, and was disappointed. 

On the day that we sighted land he came on deck 
into the convict’s pen once more. I stood and watched 
him as he gazed out over the sea in his listless fashion. 
Then I saw him start, and, turning to his companion, 
ask a question. At the answer he hastily raised his 
hand to his head, looked wildly round him, then stag- 
gered and fell on the deck. 


F 


11 


CHAPTER VIII. 


I had him carried back to the hospital and laid 
upon his bed. The man was still weak, and the faint 
was a long one. We stayed with him and did what 
we could to bring him round. Mayhew, the hospital 
guard, and myself were with him when he came to 
himself, and we were the only ones. He must have 
been a man of extraordinary nervous energy. Before 
he was fully conscious he was on his guard ; before 
he could possibly have grasped the circumstances by 
which he was surrounded he had again grasped the 
remembrance of his secret. Whatever that secret 
might be, it was safe with him. Whatever it was that 
he desired to conceal was to remain a secret still. 

Gradually he recovered consciousness, and opened 
his eyes. I had watched eagerly for this, both as a 
doctor and as a philosopher, and both as a doctor and 
as a philosopher I was gratified. As I had expected, he 
did not recognize me. As I had fully anticipated, the 
expression of his eyes had changed. Whoever he was, 
the recent scenes of his life had been wiped out of his 
memory. Whoever he had been, the past life which 
had been lost to him was now restored. 

He looked at me, but said nothing. Mayhew looked 
anxiously at him and then at me. I felt that if I 
wished to learn anything I must begin. If I hoped to 
gain any information about 321, my only chance was 
to obtain it now. 

122 


IN THE STORM 


123 


“Do you feel better?” I asked, laying my fingers on 
his wrist. 

“ Pardon me.” His voice was clear and firm ; it had 
the unmistakable tone of the voice of a gentleman. 
“ Have I been long unwell ?” 

“At present only a few minutes. You were looking 
at the land. The sunlight on the water must have 
affected you. You have but just recovered from a 
long illness.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, and remained silent. Yet 
his eyes did not rest for an instant. With quick secret 
glances he was looking at the place, the furniture, 
Mayhew, and myself, with the slightly puzzled look 
of a man who has forgotten, but thinks he ought to 
remember. 

“ Have you forgotten your illness ?” I asked, after a 
pause. 

“ Quite, sir, quite.” 

“ What is the last thing you can remember clearly ?” 

I thought he was about to answer me. I leaned 
forward involuntarily to catch the expression of his 
face, and I could see Mayhew and the soldier from 
behind him looking and listening also. 

For an instant he paused. The muscles of his face 
never moved, but one sharp gleam of pain passed over 
his eyes for a single second before he replied. 

“ Pardon me, sir ; the recollection is a painful one.” 

He stopped at that. Looking at him I felt sure that 
at that point he would continue to stop. For the 
moment I felt annoyed. I forgot that I was a philoso- 
pher writing the “Philosophy of Error.” I gave a 
sample of the error, and forgot to give an illustration 
of the philosophy. 

“Well, sir, of course your secret is your own, and I 


124 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


have no desire to intrude.” I may remark that this 
was an error. I had a very strong desire to intrude. 
The explanation will be found in Chapter IX., Book I. 
of the “Philosophy of Error.” Whoever wastes his 
time in reading this will do well to improve his mind 
by reading that, as soon as it is published. “ In the 
mean time,” I continued, “ as you may be somewhat at 
a loss, let me tell you that you are on board the ship 
‘ Torres Yedras,’ off the coast of Australia, and that, I 
regret to say, you are at present a prisoner on board.” 

As I spoke, he looked quietly and inquiringly in my 
face. As I concluded, he spoke again. 

“Thank you, sir, for the information. Could you 
increase the obligation by mentioning the name by 
which I am known on board as a prisoner ?” 

“Number 321,” I replied. 

“ Only that ?” 

“ Only that. In the books you have the additional 
name of John Jenkins, I believe.” 

As I spoke, a look of relief passed over his face ; the 
anxiety which had shown itself in his tone passed out 
of his voice. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “Jenkins. Yes, I remember.” 

That was all. Number 321 had learned all he was 
anxious to know, and he was evidently not inclined to 
be communicative about himself. 

As a philosopher I felt that my curiosity, however 
friendly, was hardly dignified. As a doctor I felt that 
I must let my patient alone. I left the hospital, the 
soldier standing at ease at the door, Mayhew sitting 
on an empty bunk, staring curiously at his comrade. 

On deck I met Miss Malcolm. 

“Was that poor 321 who fainted on deck just now, 
doctor ?” she asked, in that soft, clear voice which as a 


IN THE STORM 


125 


doctor I had learnt to appreciate and as a philosopher 
had learnt to like. Had I been twenty years younger, 
I might have had views about it also as a man ; but 
that is beside the question, and really concerns nobody. 

“ Yes, my dear, hut he’s all right again now.” 

She looked at me as if she would like to ask more ; 
then she checked herself, and turned away with the 
remark, “ It is something, doctor, to have brought the 
rest of us here in safety.” 

In the saloon the captain was lazily smoking his 
hookah and sipping his claret by turns, as he lay back 
in the Indian straw chair which played an important 
part in his domestic economy. “ Land at last, doctor,” 
he observed, as I entered. “ You’ve had a pretty tough 
job of it this time. I congratulate you on your 
success.” 

“ Thank you, captain,” I replied. “ I hope you’ll see 
your way to do something for my last patient.” 

“Last patient, eh? Whom do you mean?” The 
captain removed the mouth-piece of his pipe, in his 
surprise. 

“ Humber 321, you know — the man that went over- 
board after your boy.” 

“ Three-twenty-one ? Ah, to be sure. And the poor 
beggar has pulled through, after all? Well, you sur- 
prise me!” And Captain Malet replaced his mouth- 
piece, and took several meditative whiffs at the hookah 
without speaking. 

“Yes,” I said, after waiting in vain for something 
more. “Yes, he’s pulled through. Don’t you think 
you could do something for him ?” 

“Dammed if I know,” he said, at last. “You see, 
doctor, it was confoundedly irregular, and all that sort 
of thing, you know. Of course, under the circum- 
11 * 


126 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


stances, I overlooked it. But, don’t you see, one 
mustn’t go too far with that sort of fellow. Bad char- 
acter, too. Here for murder and robbery: why on 
earth they didn’t hang him I don’t know. Chain gang 
and all that sort of thing when he gets ashore, I 
expect.” 

“ Well, at least you could get him off that, captain,” 
I exclaimed, shocked and startled at the idea of such 
a degradation for the man I had just left. “ You owe 
him as much as that, at least.” 

“Ah, you think so, do you, doctor? Well, come to 
look at it, perhaps you’re right. After all, you see, he 
did save the child, and it was a deuced plucky thing to 
do. Yes, I think I might manage that — and you think 
it would be the correct thing to do under the circum- 
stances ?” 

“Certainly, Captain Malet; I feel sure it wouldn’t 
look well if you did nothing at all for the man.” 

“ All right, doctor. Do you know, I’m rather glad 
you happened to mention it. Poor devil! It was a 
plucky thing to do, you know, after all. Yes, I won’t 
forget.” 

It was another week before we reached Sydney 
Harbor, and in the mean time, to my surprise, my last 
patient got out of my hands. He evidently did not 
want to stay in the hospital. He manifestly preferred 
to go back to his place with the others. 

I made no further attempt to surprise his secret. At 
our last interview I noticed that once more the expres- 
sion of his eyes had altered. The vague far-away look 
which on his first recovery had given way to one of 
surprise and curiosity had been replaced by one of 
concentration and secrecy, almost fierce in its intensity. 
That the man had a secret I felt more sure than ever. 


IN THE STORM 


127 


That it would remain a secret I felt certain, even to 
the very end. 

At last we cast anchor in Port Jackson, and my work 
was done. I gave my report to the proper officer, 
who came on board to get it ; and I said good-by to 
my fellow-passengers. As I shook hands with Captain 
Malet, he said, “ I’ve not forgotten your murderer. I 
hope he won’t repeat any of his old performances here, 
or the authorities won’t thank me.” 

I glanced at the convicts who were being paraded 
to go on shore. The last figure on which my eyes 
rested was the tall figure of Number 321. The last 
farewell I heard as I sat in the boat came down to me 
in the pleasant voice of Miss Malcolm, as she leaned 
over to wave her handkerchief to me as I left the 
ship’s side. 


CHAPTER IX. 

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER OF MISS MALCOLM’S TO A 
FRIEND IN ENGLAND. 

We had the strangest, the most terrible voyage in 
the “Torres Vedras.” At first I thought it was going 
to be nice — all but the poor convicts, of course. You 
never saw anything like the way they are treated, and 
it is quite dreadful to see their sad, dreary faces, looking 
as if they had nothing to live for. At first I thought 
I would keep myself from thinking about them, be- 
cause you know I could do nothing for them, and of 
course most of them are sure to have been very wicked. 
I dare say I might have almost forgotten them, too, if 
we had had nice companions in the cabin. People say 
I must have been unfortunate, and perhaps it was 
partly my own fault ; but at any rate the passengers 
didn’t interest me much. You saw Captain and Mrs. 
Malet and little Georgie before we left, so I needn’t 
describe them ; but I don’t think you saw Miss Tupper. 
Well, she was worse, ever so much worse than Mrs. 
Malet. She is ever so old, older than Mrs. Malet, a 
great deal, and she wants to look young. Then she 
reads poetry and repeats it at night, you know, on 
deck — that sort of a person, and not good looking in 
the very least. Of course she was very tiresome. 
Then Mr. Lawson — he was the ensign, and hadn’t been 
one very long. He used to say, “ Ah, do you know ?” 
whenever he began to say anything, and, “ Really now. 

128 


IN THE STORM 


129 


Indeed, you don’t say so,” whenever one ventured to 
make a remark ; the sort of young man who ought 
to lisp, only this one didn’t, which was somehow aggra- 
vating. The ship’s captain — they always call him 
“skipper;” I wonder why — was an old Scotchman, 
very surly and disagreeable, who always said “ ma’am” 
at the end of his sentences, and looked as if he found 
ladies very much in his way. Oh, but there was the 
doctor. He was my one bright spot — the dearest, 
funniest old absurdity you ever saw. He was such 
fun at first. He had been surgeon to the Forty- 
seventh all through the Peninsula, and now he is 
writing a book. It is about the “ Philosophy of Error,” 
and he quite believes that when it is written (I don’t 
believe it ever will be, you know, for he gets at least 
one new idea for it every day) it will somehow do 
away with mistakes and crimes and wrong things 
altogether. He used to tell me about it, and some- 
times read me bits out of it. Such funny things, but 
sometimes very curious and clever, too. I think I could 
have got on pretty well with my books and Georgie, 
and the “Philosophy of Error,” if the doctor hadn’t 
spoiled me for it. He would talk about the convicts, 
and tell one all sorts of dreadful things about the 
horrible place they had to live in below. Some of 
them are there for quite little things, too. One man 
he pointed out to me (you know we could see them 
when we were on deck, for they had a place near the 
middle of the ship, fenced in with bars, just like a 
wild beast’s cage without a roof) w T ho was only a 
poacher and had fought with the game-keeper. The 
game-keeper struck him with a gun and the man struck 
him with a stick and knocked him down, but didn’t 
do him much harm, and yet he was sent away among 


130 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


all sorts of dreadful people and was treated worse than 
a wild beast. 

The doctor was always talking to Captain Malet 
about the place into which they had squeezed these 
convicts, and saying we should have some dreadful 
disease in the ship. The captain would only laugh, 
and smoke his long pipe; but my doctor was right, 
and we had, oh ! such a dreadful time, after all. 

First little Georgie fell overboard just before dark 
one night. It was not exactly stormy, but great waves 
were rushing and heaving past the ship at the time. 
You would never have believed that any one could 
have floated for a minute among them. The poor 
little fellow gave one great scream as he fell. My 
heart seemed to stand still. I was standing on the 
ladder leading up to the poop deck, holding on tightly 
by the brass railing to keep myself from falling, and 
looking at the waves dashing past the ship, when it 
happened, so I saw it all quite distinctly. I think I 
must have screamed quite as loudly as Georgie did, I 
was so terrified and so helpless. Then in a moment I 
saw one of the convicts scramble up to the top of the 
fence I told you about, and then spring headlong, just 
as you might fancy a lion springing into the tossing 
waves. You can’t fancy what it was like. There was 
poor Georgie being swept away behind the ship, only 
his little petticoats and things keeping him afloat, and 
there was the brave convict battling against the great 
green waves that rushed at him as if they meant to 
swallow him up in a moment. Everybody rushed to 
the side to look at him, and the sailors loosed all the 
ropes and things that hold the sails and the yards, and 
the ship came round as if to go after him. It grows 
dark so fast there that we soon lost sight of them 


IN THE STORM 


131 


both, only we saw the convict reach him and get him 
in his arms, and then it all grew mixed and we could 
see nothing but tossing waves, sometimes green and 
sometimes white, and could only fancy that now and 
then we caught glimpses of their heads among them. 
A boat was let down and rowed away, but they had 
to row against the waves. It was ever so long before 
they reached them, and it was quite dark before they 
got back. When they got Georgie on board he had 
fainted, and the man that saved him came on deck at 
the same time, dripping with water and looking so 
dark and strange in the light of the lanterns. He was 
tall and very strong-looking. I don’t think I ever saw 
a stronger-looking man, and he had very black hair, 
which hung all wet over his face, and the very strangest 
fiery black eyes you ever saw. He didn’t seem to take 
any notice of anything; even when Captain Malet 
spoke to him quite harshly, and asked who he was, he 
didn’t seem to mind in the least or to think it strange, 
when he had just saved his boy. 

I could never like Captain Malet again, though. Just 
fancy him ordering a soldier to take him away and 
lock him up, just as if he had been a dangerous dog 
got loose, when he had done a thing that not a single 
one of all these sailors and soldiers was brave enough 
to do. I know the doctor was angry, too, for he spoke 
quite roughly, telling us to get Georgie undressed, and 
then he went after the convict. I should so much have 
liked to go, too, just to show the poor creature that we 
could admire a great deed, even if he was a convict ; 
but of course I couldn’t do that. 

By and by the doctor came back, and I could see 
that he was anxious, for he was very cross. Mrs. 
Malet had gone into hysterics, poor thing, when they 


132 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


took Georgie into the saloon, and he actually told the 
captain to take her away and throw water over her, 
and plenty of it, and she had on a really lovely silk at 
the time. Of course Miss Tupper was absurd to go 
into hysterics, too ; but he offended the poor creature 
very much by the contemptuous way he spoke of her. 
We got Georgie to bed, however, and he was as well as 
ever the next day. But that night the man who saved 
him took ill of fever. The doctor says the fever was 
there before, and the excitement and exertion only 
brought it out more quickly, but at any rate it was 
very dreadful. 

That old wretch the ship’s captain had actually 
stolen most of the room that was meant for the con- 
victs, and they were almost choked by the bad air. 
The moment the fever began, it spread among them 
just like the stories one has heard of the plague. Ever 
so much of the cargo had to be thrown overboard, for 
it was our only chance of stopping the fever. I sup- 
pose it did stop it at last, but at one time I thought 
every one on board would have died ; but for the doctor 
I am sure they would. More than a hundred of the 
convicts did die and were thrown overboard, as well as 
ten of the soldiers, and some sailors as well. 

After the first week, I got leave from the doctor to 
help. You know I always said it was woman’s work 
to nurse, and the doctor was getting quite worn out. 
The soldiers he had to help him kept getting fever them- 
selves, and it was much better to do what one could 
than that we should all die. I used to see the mili- 
tary hospital at Colchester, when papa commanded 
there, but I never saw anything the least like this. 
There were more than a hundred beds — well, you 
couldn’t call them beds, they were only rough shelves 


IN THE STORM 


133 


put up by the carpenter in rows, with just room to get 
about between them. How the poor creatures lived at 
all I can hardly fancy ; but a good many of them did 
recover in the end. 

That poacher was a splendid fellow. You never saw 
a man work as he did. Day and night, week after 
week, he was going from bed to bed, giving the poor 
creatures drink or medicines. Sometimes they raved 
fearfully, and had to be held or even tied down, and 
then it was awful to hear them. The poacher’s real 
name was Mayhew, and he was called 322 because that 
was his convict number on board. You can hardly 
fancy what a nice fellow he was, in spite of his awful 
convict clothes, and he was there for the sake of his 
comrade, the man who saved Georgie. He was 321, 
and he was terribly ill. I know there was some strange 
mystery about that man, and I feel sure the doctor 
thought so, too. But through all his fever he never 
told anything, even when he was most wildly delirious. 
He would sometimes call out “ George, George,” in 
such a tone, it was enough to break your heart ; and 
then he would mutter “ Jenkins, Jenkins. Yes, Jenkins 
is the name.” But he never said one word about his 
own past life. It was so strange to see his wild black 
eyes shining out of his gaunt face like stars, and his 
comrade always trying to soothe him. He did recover 
at last, but it was all owing, the doctor said, to 322 that 
he ever got better. 

We got here at last. You can have no idea how 
lovely it seemed after that terrible time. I don’t know 
what the poor prisoners thought of it, for of course 
they had only come out for punishment, but it was 
like fairyland to me. The sky was so blue, and the 
water was exactly the same color, only a shade darker. 

12 


134 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


The sun here seems ever so much brighter than it is in 
England ; and the whole air is filled with the scent of 
the wild flowers and shrubs that cover all the little 
hills and points round the harbor. 

When we got in, papa hadn’t arrived ; but an officer 
came off in about an hour to invite me to stay at Gov- 
ernment House till he came. Of course, I was de- 
lighted to go, for I was wild to go on shore. I had 
been looking at Government House, standing among 
the trees, the very loveliest spot you can imagine. The 
doctor went ashore first, with some military friend 
who had brought a boat off when we first came in, 
and by the time I was ready the prisoners were being 
got ready to go ashore. 

Ho you know, I felt quite sorry to leave the poor 
creatures. I could see quite a number of those I had 
helped to nurse, and they had always been so nice and 
grateful to me. Poor fellows, as I passed them quite 
a number pulled off their caps and gave a kind of 
cheer. I could have cried, then, do you know. I don’t 
think I ever, in all my life, heard anything so sad as 
that cheer. 

I passed quite close to where Mayhew was standing 
beside Ho. 321. Mayhew had his cap off and was 
cheering; the other stood quite still, with his arms 
folded, looking at me with the strangest face. I don’t 
think he knew me at all, and yet, somehow, his face 
looked as if he thought he ought to, and was trying 
hard to remember. It was really a terrible face, but so 
strange and strong and grand. The doctor told me 
long before that he had been condemned to be exe- 
cuted for highway robbery and murder, and that he 
had only been reprieved afterwards. I don’t believe 
he did it. He might have killed some one, perhaps, 


IN THE STOKM 


135 


for some very great reason, but I can’t believe be 
ever robbed any one. His face wasn’t in the very 
least like that. 

It was delightful at Government House. They were 
all as kind to me as could be, and if one had not known 
otherwise, and if the sky and the air and the water 
and everything had not somehow looked different and 
new, one might have fancied oneself in an English 
country-house again. Two days after we arrived our 
doctor came to call on the governor, and he told me a 
great deal about our prisoners. Poor fellows, they 
were all, except a few of the worst criminals, to be 
distributed, in a week or two, among the settlers for 
servants. He says he hears that sometimes they are 
almost starved, and very cruelly treated. I determined 
then that I would see whether papa couldn’t have 
Mayhew and his friend given to him for servants. I 
am sure they wouldn’t be starved and ill-treated at his 
place. 

Next day papa came. Ho you know, he looks a 
great deal older, and ever so much more severe than he 
used to do when you knew him. I was so sorry. I 
wonder whether having convict servants to look after 
makes people look like that? It had such an effect 
upon me, do you know, that I was positively almost 
afraid to ask him about Mayhew and the other. How- 
ever, that seemed foolish, so I did it at last. Ho meant 
to be everything that was kind to me, I am certain, 
but he was quite annoyed when I told him about my 
helping to nurse the convicts. He seemed to think 
the doctor and Captain Malet and every one greatly to 
blame to have allowed it, but of course he couldn’t 
know one bit what it was like. 

At last he said he wanted some more hands, and he 


136 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


would see about it. Then he looked at me for a moment 
and said, — u But remember, Kate, convicts are convicts 
here. They come here to be punished, not to be cod- 
dled.” I only said, “ Yes, papa but I felt almost 
sorry that I had asked him to take them at all. 


CHAPTER X. 


CHARLES FORTESCUE’s STORY. (CONTINUED.) 

I awoke suddenly to recollection of the past at the 
sight of the flashing ocean and the distant land. The 
one word “ Australia,” spoken by the man at my side, 
came to me like an echo of the great prison clock 
striking four, and all that may have happened to me 
between the two impressions was swept from my mem- 
ory as though it had never been. 

As the word was spoken the grey blue cloud on the 
horizon and the blazing sunlight laughing on the sum- 
mer sea joined themselves by some strange mental 
process to the sullen background of the condemned cell 
at Xewgate, and seemed to complete the picture. In 
my last conscious moments I had seen the shadow of 
death approaching in the midst of life ; I awoke again 
only to find that it had reached me, though in a form 
different from that I had expected. 

They say I fainted ; I suppose it is true, for when I 
awoke again I lay on a wretched bed between decks 
and the first sound of which I was conscious was the 
rush and ripple of parting waters coming through the 
open port at my side. 

The faces I saw and the voices I heard were new, 
yet not unfamiliar to me. Like the faces one has seen 
in dreams, they haunted me with a half recollection. 
Like the sounds one has heard in sleep, they were at 
once strange and familiar to my ear. 

12 * 


137 


138 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


What would it be to awake in hell ? To know the 
shipwreck of all hope: the end of all desire; the de- 
struction of the past, all but the pains of memory ; the 
death of the future, all but the agony of its continuance! 
To few mortals can it be given to experience this. I 
was one of these. In all but its perpetuity this was 
hell. To feel the past as I felt it then, to gaze on the 
future as I then gazed upon it, this was hell. Let no 
one congratulate himself that there is no hell more 
material than this. This is enough. Yet I lived on. 
It would not have been difficult to commit suicide, yet, 
somehow, I never thought of it. My body, I was told, 
had just recovered from an illness, and I felt the sense 
of recovered vigor and renewed life in my veins and 
sinews. It gave me no sensible pleasure, yet who can 
say that it did not go far to counteract the dull heavy 
agony of emptiness that oppressed my mind ? 

Among the faces that came back to me with a haunt- 
ing sense of recognition was one which I saw the day 
I left the ship. We were ordered to muster to go 
ashore. Mechanically I obeyed the order, which had 
no interest for me, and hardly awoke any idea in my 
mind. As we stood on deck I was startled by a move- 
ment of my companions, followed by something cer- 
tainly meant for a cheer from our ranks. It was 
strange, hoarse, and unnatural, but it was intended for 
a cheer, and the idea was startling, for what could con- 
victs find to cheer about ? I looked up hastily to see, 
and met that face. I had seen it before — in dreams, it 
might be, but I had seen it. 

It was the face of a girl — a face that would have 
been called singularly handsome, if it had not been 
beautiful; a face which must have been admired for 
its perfection of shape and color, if it had not been 


IN THE STORM 


139 


worshipped for its expression. When I looked up, her 
eyes met mine. They were large, dark, luminous, and 
they were full of tears. I looked, and I almost stag- 
gered. It was a face out of the past life which was 
dead, and it was glorified by tears of sympathy and 
pity, which seemed to belong to the life to come. 

Having once seen her, I could not withdraw my 
eyes. I watched her eagerly and hungrily as she 
passed us by ; I gazed after her wonderingly when she 
had left the ship. Her face was not to me like the face 
of a woman. The tall, graceful figure seemed to me 
like that of some visitor from a better world. 

In every great emotion there is something of a rev- 
elation. But a minute before I had felt as though 
I were in hell, and already everything was changed. 
Hell is but a conception of evil, stereoypted and un- 
changeable. When pity and sympathy find an en- 
trance, the worst of hell, nay, hell itself, has ceased to 
exist. Vaguely, in my despair, I had dreamed that 
some change might come to me when the torture of 
life was ended. The sight of that face, full of sym- 
pathy, and those tears, full of pity, had already light- 
ened my despair, and made hope even on earth seem a 
possible thing. I had seen it but for a few moments, 
but there is no time-limit to feeling. I was degraded 
still, but no longer utterly hopeless. I was still an out- 
cast, but no longer utterly forsaken. 

It was but one glimpse, but there are times in a life- 
history when a glimpse may be salvation. For the 
time it was so to me. Shut out, as I was. by a fate at 
once dark and mysterious, from my kind, I felt from 
that moment that it was possible I might not be shut 
out forever. In the company of the other prisoners, 
most of them the mere offscourings of humanity, I 


140 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


could now think of something that was not degrading. 
In the wretchedness of the prison and the darkness of 
the cell I could think of the past without utter despair, 
and could even dream strange dreams of hope for the 
future, rendered conceivable by the vision of that face 
and the memory of those tears of sympathy. 

I cannot say I remember how we were employed 
when we first landed. I know we were marched out 
to work in the morning, and I remember that we were 
locked up again at night. The work must have been 
hard, for I know I was weary, and slept well at night, 
but the incidents of the time passed me by unheeded, 
for the most part. My body grew strong — stronger, I 
think, than ever before, — and mere toil did not hurt me 
in the least. It was the degradation, the sense of 
shame and of slavery that seemed to eat into my soul 
like fetters • and but for that one ray of light it would 
have made me desperate. 

The days followed one another monotonously, and I 
kept no record of time. What, indeed, was time to 
me ? Intensity, they say, is the equivalent of dura- 
tion ; and, if this be true, I lived for years in that prison. 
At last a change came. 

We were mustered one morning in the yard, and, 
instead of being marched out, we were kept standing 
there. Living, as I now did generally, in a life made 
up of dreamy recollections of the past, and still more 
dreamy visions of an all but impossible future, it scarcely 
aroused my attention. Presently, however, I noticed 
that we were undergoing inspection by a number of 
people, some of them, apparently, gentlemen, and others 
quite the reverse. Then I remembered having heard 
that we should be sent out to service with the settlers, 
and I looked with greater curiosity at the men who 


m THE STORM 


141 


were examining us with all the care of buyers in a 
slave-market. 

They walked along our ranks, picking out the men 
whose appearance pleased them most, asking questions 
of the warders in attendance as to the crimes of the 
prisoners and their conduct in prison. I found myself 
listening with a sense of amusement, thinking how 
little they knew of the real character of the men to 
whom they gave good recommendations, and who were, 
as a rule, the worst and most accomplished scoundrels. 
I almost started when one man at last stopped in front 
of me. I looked steadily in his face, and he did the 
same to me for an instant. He was an elderly man 
and a gentleman ; so much was evident at^a glance. 
He was also, I judged, a military man, from his figure 
and carriage, though his dress bore no signs of it. He 
was a handsome man, not greatly short of sixty years 
of age, with grey hair and keen bluish-grey eyes, which 
looked at me as if they would fain look through me. 
His face was stern and cold, but it was the face of a 
gentleman, and at the first glance I was disposed to 
like it. It seemed to me I must somewhere have seen 
a face like it before, but I could not remember where 
it was or to whom it belonged. 

He carried a riding-whip in his hand, and as he 
spoke he touched me lightly with it on the arm. The 
touch was offensive. 

“ And this fellow, warder ; what’s he in for ?” 

“ Highway robbery and murder, colonel ; a reprieved 
criminal, sir.” 

“ Ah,” he said ; and the colonel looked at me with some 
interest. “ Highway robbery and murder, eh, and not 
hanged ? What’s your name, fellow ?” He looked at me 
sternly ; he spoke in a stern, peremptory tone of voice. 


142 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


As he spoke, the liking I had conceived for him at 
first sight ebbed quickly away, and I was conscious of a 
feeling of dislike and antagonism taking its place. The 
habit of obedience had now been formed, however, and, 
although I felt the blood surge upward to my face as 
he spoke, I answered, quietly, — 

“ Three hundred and twenty-one, sir.” 

“Three hundred and twenty-one? Nonsense, sir, I 
asked your name. I suppose you had one, once. We 
know nothing of numbers in the bush. What is your 
name ? or your last alias will do as well.” 

What was it in the old man’s tone that fell on my 
nerves like the stroke of a whip ? I cannot tell, but I 
know that so it was. Already, in these few seconds 
my mouth had grown parched and my throat dry. My 
brain felt hot and burning as I met his cold, contemp- 
tuous eye, and my hands tingled with a sensation of 
longing that was almost tiger-like. I mastered my 
voice by an effort and replied, — 

“ Jenkins is my name, sir.” 

“Jenkins. Ah, yes; I thought so. Well, Jenkins, 
look here. I don't like your looks in the least, but I 
have a reason for taking you, and I will do it. Don’t 
make any mistake about it, though. I can see from your 
appearance that this position is new to you, and I wish 
to start fair. You may have been a gentleman once ; 
with that I have nothing to do ; you are a convict now, 
and I have everything to do with that. You will be 
treated like the other convicts by me — neither better be- 
cause you were once a gentleman, nor worse because you 
have been a disgrace to the name. Do fair work and you 
will get fair treatment. Behave well, and you will be 
treated well. If not,” he added, looking straight into 
my eyes as he spoke, “ if not, take care of yourself.” 


IN THE STOKM 


143 


He turned sharply round and left me as he spoke, 
and I remained looking after him, stupidly, I dare say, 
for at the moment I felt stupefied, perhaps from the 
force I put upon myself, but with a feeling at my heart 
better suited to the man I was supposed to be than to 
the man I had really been until that moment. 

He stopped again before Tom and asked his name. 
Tom gave his own name pleasantly enough, and, I dare 
say, he would have taken him, too, but the warder said, 
“ This man was selected by Mr. Turner, of Kowalla 
Station, colonel, a little while ago.” 

“ Ah,” he said, turning away ; “ selected by Turner, 
eh ? He isn't in luck, then. He’d have been better 
off with me.” Better off with him! I looked after 
him as he walked out of the yard, and I confess I 
thought it hardly likely. Tom shrugged his shoulders 
and looked after him, too. Then he ventured to say, in 
a low tone, 

“ Better off with him ! Well, I dunno about that. If 
it’s a fact, it don’t look very rosy for Turner’s place, I’m 
thinking.” 

I thought the same, and I was sorry, besides, that 
Tom and I were to be separated. It is true I had only 
known him, consciously, at any rate, for a few weeks, 
but I had learned to look on him as something like a 
friend even in that short time, although in many ways 
we had not much in common. 

Two days more and I saw the last of prison life. I 
started with the colonel’s team and his servants for the 
station. It was like beginning a new life to leave be- 
hind the little town and the wretched prison, to smell 
the fresh smell of the country, and to feel a sense of 
liberty once more, even although I knew I was still 
enslaved. 


CHAPTEK XI. 


The colonel’s station was in the new country, and 
his dray and team had come down for stores. Two 
days later I was marched out of prison and handed 
over — with three others whom he had selected — to my 
new master. The colonel had not impressed me favor- 
ably the first time I saw him ; he didn’t improve mat- 
ters on this second occasion. He was accompanied 
by the man in charge of the dray, a raw-boned, hard- 
featured man from the north of Ireland, and he handed 
us over to him. 

The colonel was a man of few words, and he said but 
little now. 

“ These are the new hands, Fergusson. You’ll see 
them safe to the station.” 

“ Yes, colonel,” said Fergusson, giving a half military 
salute. 

“ If they go quietly, good and well ; if they give 
trouble, report them to Mr. Linnock for punishment 
when they get there ; if they mutiny or try to get 
away, shoot them. Do you hear ?” 

“ Yes, colonel ; certainly.” 

“ Then attend to it.” 

And the colonel replaced his cigar between his lips, 
turned on his heel, and left us in the street. 

A glance of intelligence passed between my three 
companions, but they said nothing. 

“ Come along, you fellows,” said Fergusson, harshly; 

144 


IN THE STORM 


145 


“ the dray’s loaded up, and it’s time we were making 
tracks.” 

We followed him down the street without answering. 
We made our commencement of the new life under 
threat of the lash and the bullet. 

There was a sort of freedom in it which we all felt 
and appreciated. We were driven into new slavery, it 
is true, and compelled to go quietly, but it was a more 
promising slavery than the one we had left. In the 
last week of the voyage I had been conscious of the 
past rather than the present. In the prison I had been 
weighed down and almost crushed by the horror of the 
present, only made possible of endurance by the one 
gleam of human pity which imagination had tortured 
into a ray of hope. Now, I was conscious in a differ- 
ent way of the present, and it became even possible 
to take a vague interest in the future. 

To the ordinary convict there was mercy in the sys- 
tem. The mere sense of the newness of the country 
was itself a new life. The mere facts of its vastness, 
its novelty, and its strangeness suggested and con- 
tributed to a new start. To me, also, though in other 
ways, it was a gain. If I had no background of crime 
to darken my memory, I bad one at least of misery 
and degradation. That it was endured for others was 
not always a thought of relief. At times its injustice 
was even an aggravation. Misery without crime, de- 
gradation without wrong-doing. At times I doubted 
of all things, and right and wrong seemed little more 
than names. 

Nature did me good. My companions, no doubt, 
thought me sulky, for, after a few coarse advances, 
they let me alone. Once fairly on the journey, Fergus- 
son became more friendly, and both he and the hand he 
ok 13 


146 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


had with him seemed to get on well with my compan- 
ions. Something in my appearance was, I suppose, 
against me. Something made them ask no questions 
and offer no friendship to me. I didn’t care to inquire 
the reason 0/ this ; I didn’t trouble to speculate on its 
possible consequences. 

We went but slowly, and were more than a fortnight 
on the journey. In that time I had made up my mind. 
Two things only seemed possible to improve my posi- 
tion, and each of these, I could see, would be difficult 
to accomplish. I must succeed in satisfying my new 
master, and, if possible, gaining his confidence ; and I 
must find some means, entirely private, of letting 
George know the truth. Difficult as these things 
seemed to be, they would surely, so I thought in my 
ignorance, prove at least possible. The colonel was 
certainly not a promising master; but from what I 
overheard it seemed likely we should see but little of 
him in person. To do my own work and to mind my 
own business might at least ensure my being let alone, 
and the chapter of accidents might at any time do the 
rest. Was not my life all before me? Was I not able 
to wait ? As for a letter to George, that too must wait. 

Meanwhile, my companions seemed more than con- 
tented. To my eyes, indeed, they did not look a prom- 
ising party, yet they evidently found favor in the eyes 
of Fergusson and his assistant, while I was looked on 
with suspicion and dislike. It seemed strange at the 
time, but after all it was only natural. Convicts who 
were criminals they could understand and get on with ; 
a convict who was not a criminal was an anomaly, and 
as such he was objectionable. I had the satisfaction of 
knowing that I was not liked, and the comfort of feeling 
that somehow I was already looked on with suspicion. 


IN THE STORM 


147 


So we gradually made our way into the new country. 
We reached the colonel’s station at last. 

The name of the station was “ Miami,” and it was 
one of the best in the district. The house stood on a 
rising ground, which sloped in front to a stream that 
ran through a flat in front of it. Some pains and 
money had been spent on making the house both com- 
fortable and picturesque. Of a single story, long and 
low, with a deep veranda, which the rapid vegetation 
had already done much to smother in masses of creep- 
ers, the house, even from a distance, had an air of 
refinement and comfort. A garden, bright with flower- 
beds and shrubs, stretched down the slope towards the 
stream, and blushed in the hot rays of the summer 
sun. Below was a field of maize, now densely green in 
its first growth, stretching to the bank of the stream, 
already little more than a watercourse, with here and 
there a pool in some shady hollow. 

Under the warm glow of the western sun that struck 
level on the house, lighting its windows to a rosy flame 
and blazing on the garden beds in front, the first sight 
of the homestead at Miami was, to my eyes, like *a dim 
reflection from the days that were gone — a tender 
memory of the life that was dead to me. We turned 
off to the right and left it. Still, my eyes, almost in- 
voluntarily, turned back till a clump of native trees 
shut it out of sight. Beyond the clump were the con- 
vict quarters, the life to which I was condemned. 

The “ huts,” as they were called at Miami, were three 
in number, and stood near together. There was noth- 
ing to make them attractive from the outside ; there 
was next to nothing to make them comfortable within. 
They afforded shelter from the weather to the colonel’s 
convicts, and they afforded nothing more. The colonel 


148 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


considered, no doubt, that they were good enough for 
convicts, and, in a sense, he was not far wrong. 

Each hut gave shelter to six men, including the cook 
and hut-keeper for each, and these were all the con- 
victs who were employed about the home station. It 
was late in spring when we arrived, and the spring 
work was nearly over. The day after we arrived we 
were sent to the bush. The work was hard, but in 
some ways it was the best we could have been set to do. 
Our work was to split and get out fencing, and so long 
as we got out enough we were but little interfered with 
by the overseer. 

Yet the life was not an easy one. To walk five miles 
to the ranges in the morning, to work hard at unac- 
customed labor under an Australian sun all day, and 
then to walk back to the huts at night, would have 
been hard even for seasoned laborers. To me it was at 
first exhausting. Many a night I threw myself on the 
straw of my bunk and fell asleep, too tired to await or 
to care for the mutton and damper that formed our 
evening, as it did our morning and midday meal. 

One can grow accustomed to anything, and I soon 
grew accustomed to the work, and ceased to be greatly 
offended by my company. I was no favorite with my 
companions, yet I was not molested by them. I was 
still looked on as sulky, because I had no stories of my 
own to tell, and no laughter to givo to the stories and 
the jokes of others. Yet the first dislike and suspicion 
gradually wore off. I went by the name of “ Gentle- 
man Jenkins,” and, as I did my share of work and 
never grumbled, I was tacitly allowed to go my own 
may unmolested and unquestioned. 

Once a week — on Sundays — when I had washed my 
clothes, I used to steal round the clump of bush and lie 


IN THE STORM 


149 


on the ground under a tree where I could command a 
view of the house. It was half a mile off, but still I 
could see something, and imagine more, of what was 
going on. The tall military figure of the colonel would 
pace the long veranda for hours. Younger and less 
stately figures would sit on the steps, or saunter among 
the garden beds. Figures of men in broad hats and 
high boots and riding breeches would come there some- 
times, and figures of girls with gauzy dresses and shady 
parasols at others ; sometimes both would be mingled. 
I got used to them, I recognized them again when they 
came. I had even names of my own by which I knew 
them from one another. Among them all, two only, 
besides the colonel, were nearly always there, — a young 
man and a girl. I decided that these two belonged to 
the house. I thought of them as the colonel’s son and 
daughter. 

It seems a little thing, but it was much to me. It 
was strange how utterly we were cut off from the 
house. None of us were ever permitted, on any pre- 
text, to go there, and it was rare indeed that the huts 
were visited by any one from the house. The colonel 
kept his convicts at arm’s length, and employed none 
but free labor near himself. 

Thus months passed before I knew more of the 
people at whom I looked each Sunday than my instinct 
or my fancy could discover for itself. Yet these fan- 
cies were the green spots of my life. The week was 
one unceasing round of hard work, but on Sundays, 
when we had washed our clothes, we were free to spend 
the day unmolested in eating and sleeping. On Sun- 
days, therefore, I could rest and dream ; then I could 
leave my comrades of the week, and for a few short 
hours cheat myself into forgetfulness of their existence. 

13 * 


150 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


Is it a wonder that my Sundays were spent alone in an 
atmosphere of dreams ? 

I never grew tired of watching the house and its 
inmates. The life which we actually live, be it that of 
prince or peasant, is always commonplace. It is only 
the life that is gone, or that has not arrived, that has 
poetry for us. To me the memories and instincts of a 
lifetime were represented only by what I saw there. 
The people who lived there were the men and women 
I knew. The life they were living was the life I knew 
so well, and had lost so terribly. I couldn’t help taking 
an interest in them. They were the link that bound 
me still to my own past, the slender bridge that 
spanned the dark river of despair that flowed between 
my lost past and my actual present. 

There was a good deal of ill feeling among the con- 
victs at the home station. Those of us who worked in 
the bush saw less of it than the others, because we 
were absent during the day, and not much inclined to 
discuss even grievances at night. It was easy, how- 
ever, to see that it existed, and not difficult to judge that 
it was rapidly growing more intense. Sundays were the 
favorite days, of course, for its discussion, and “ Long 
Jim,” one of the convicts who came along with me, was 
generally the chief speaker. 

When freemen discuss grievances, it is healthy ; when 
slaves discuss them, it is dangerous. Reform is the 
result of, the first, rebellion of the second. It was 
rebellion that was brewing on the Miami home station 
in December, 1834. 

I took scarcely any interest in the matter. I had 
been two months on the station, and in all that time I 
had hardly seen the overseer half a dozen times, and 
the colonel, except at a distance, not once. My idea of 


IN THE STORM 


151 


improving my position by good behavior seemed likely 
to end in a dream ; my vague hope of discovering 
means of communicating with my brother appeared 
more vague and distant now than ever. 

Hope is not only the anchor, it is the stimulant of 
the soul. While it survives, it is impossible that that 
which is really human in man can die ; when it is gone, 
it is impossible that it can long survive. The utterly 
hopeless man is the monster of humanity, and day by 
day I felt myself growing more of a monster and less 
of a man. My Sunday dreams had done something to 
save me so far, but I could feel that they were losing 
their power. My imagination was not less vivid than 
before, but it was losing its hold and influence upon 
myself. I could dream of the people and their life as 
before, I could live as before with them in imagination 
in that old humanizing life I knew so well ; but I felt 
more and more the hollow mockery of the delusion. 
The contrast with the reality was too keen, the gulf 
that separated them too wide, too hopelessly fixed. 

A week before Christmas there was trouble at the 
huts. “Long Jim” and three others refused to obey 
orders and defied the overseer. The colonel was ap- 
pealed to, and the colonel was prompt. The four men 
were marched off at once to the next station under the 
pistols of the colonel, his nephew, and the overseer. 
They were tried in the dining-room by the owner, who 
was, of course, a magistrate, and in ten minutes were 
condemned to receive thirty lashes apiece. A free man 
was paid to do the flogging, and did it savagely. When 
the colonel and his nephew had lunched with Mr. 
Turner, the convicts were marched home again, all but 
fainting, under the hot afternoon sun, and with the 
threat of being shot if they stopped or delayed on the 


152 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


road. When we reached the huts at night the offence 
and the punishment were both over, except that the 
men could not work for two days, and that the scars 
of the lash could never again be eradicated from the 
souls of four human beings. 

It was only the beginning of trouble. It is always 
the first step that is so fatal. It is the first foot that 
crosses the Rubicon which makes retreat well-nigh 
impossible. This was, at any rate, the case with us. 
The men who had been flogged were not less rebellious, 
but they were infinitely more revengeful than before. 
The disaffection of the few spread quickly to the many, 
fanned by the sense of helplessness and the sense of 
injustice and cruelty. The overseer said the devil was 
in the hands, and it is more than likely he was correct. 
What share Mr. Turner’s justice and Mr. Turner’s 
lashes had in bringing about the possession, neither he 
nor any other man could tell. On both sides the fatal 
step had been taken, the fatal stream crossed, and it 
seemed that return was not possible for either party. 
Ten days, and only ten, elapsed between the first flog- 
ging and Christmas day, and in the time nine men were 
tried* and nine were flogged. One of the same men — 
“Long Jim” — was flogged a second time, and* eight 
convicts had each been flogged once. On Christmas 
day there were eighteen of us at the huts: twelve 
were employed at home, and twelve had been flogged ; 
six were employed in the bush, and so far six had 
escaped. How long would it last ? 

On Christmas day we were not expected to work. I 
spent most of the day alone under a shady tree, staring 
vacantly at the house and speculating on the figures 
that appeared on the veranda or wandered through 
the garden. I had looked forward to the day with a 


IN THE STORM 


153 


sort of terror beforehand, and it was with a vague sen- 
sation of surprise that I found it passing over my head 
so quietly. I had thought that on that day of all days 
in the year the ghosts of the past would have haunted 
me, and the memories of my other life have made the 
present one more bitter by the contrast. I was mis- 
taken. I dreamed the day away idly, listlessly, care- 
lessly. Hour after hour found me basking almost with- 
out thought in the warm sun, and gazing with half- 
sleepy eyes on the distant house and garden. I was 
contented to be alone, to find myself at ease. Was the 
dead past, then, really dead and forgotten ? Had the 
gulf fixed between that which was and that which had 
been really separated them, after all ? 


CHAPTER XII. 


I was roused by the muffled sound of horses’ hoofs, 
and half raised myself upon my elbow. Two horse- 
men came round the corner of the clump of bush, and 
were close upon me before they saw me. My first 
impulse of curiosity, which had made me sit up, had 
given place to a wish to appear unconcerned. I re- 
mained as I was, leaning on my elbow, but I looked 
away from the approaching horsemen and fixed my 
eyes steadily upon the house. The first observation 
that told me the new-comers had caught sight of me 
was an oath uttered hastily by the man who saw me 
first. 

“ Who the devil are you ?” The tone was sharp, 
commanding, and threatening. Of course I knew he 
meant me. Equally of course, I declined to know it. 
I took no notice. He reined up his horse sharply in 
front of where I lay. 

“ Who’s this fellow, Pinnock ?” he asked, in an angry 
tone. 

“ One of the hands, sir.” It was the overseer’s voice 
that replied. “ Jenkins, his name is. One of the last 
lot.” 

“ A devilish bad lot, tool Here, you Jenkins, what 
in the name of hell do you mean by lying there staring 
at the house like that ?” 

At the sound of the overseer’s voice I had looked 
round. As he addressed me again I looked at the 
speaker. He was a young man, rather tall and de- 

154 


IN THE STORM 


155 


cidedly handsome, but with a haughty, supercilious 
look on his face that made my blood boil as I looked at 
him. 

“ I wanted to see it,” I replied, quietly enough, hut 
with every intonation of respect carefully excluded 
from my voice. I meant to offend the man when I 
spoke. I intended to make him angry the moment I 
looked in his face. 

“ You insolent scoundrel !” he exclaimed ; “ how dare 
you speak to me in that way ?” 

Does the devil enter into men now, as of old ? I 
don’t know, but I think so. At that moment I felt as 
if he had entered into me. There was a sudden tension 
of all the muscles of my body, that filled me with a 
wild sense of power — a sudden shock to the brain that 
for a moment obliterated equally all thought of the 
past and all consideration of the future. I looked at 
the man and I hated him. It was no milk-and-water 
sentiment of dislike, such as we dignify by the name 
of hatred in the world of civilization. It was with the 
hatred which does not doubt or hesitate, with the 
hatred that scorches and kills — the hatred which is 
hatred, indeed ; it was thus, at the moment, I hated 
him. I sat up and stared at him. My eyes gave him 
back the contempt of his own. My voice returned him 
the insolence of his tone. 

“ And who the devil are you ?” I replied, “ and what 
the mischief business is it of yours why I look at the 
house?” I didn’t hurry myself; I spoke the words 
slowly. I found a positive pleasure — the first I had 
felt for months, the first I was conscious of having felt 
since the old life died and the new death began — in 
speaking them. 

He paused and I watched him keenly. He grew 


156 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


pale. I knew that for the moment this man feared me, 
and the knowledge gave me pleasure again. It was 
but for a moment. Suddenly his courage came back to 
him again. Suddenly he flushed crimson. Then he 
raised the hunting whip which he carried with sudden 
energy. 

“ You blackguard !” he exclaimed, “ I’ll let you know 
who I am,” and he struck fiercely at me with the lash. 

The blow met me, as I rose to my feet, full in the face, 
and, as I afterwards discovered, it left its mark. At 
the moment I felt no pain, — only I knew he had struck 
me, and I was glad. If struck, I could strike again. 

I was a powerful man. In the playing fields at 
Eton, in the meadows, and on the river at Oxford, 
my strength and activity had been well known among 
men who could boast of not a little of both. I was 
stronger now — the result of labor. I was stronger by 
far, the effect of passion. 

How it was done I hardly know, but it was done in 
a moment. With one step forward I wrested the whip 
from his hand; with a single gesture I dragged him 
from his horse. In my grasp he seemed, for the 
moment, but an infant. His resistance was unfelt. 
Before he could speak he was at my feet ; before he 
could cry for help he lay at my mercy. 

My hand was raised to strike, but I paused. Was it 
something in his face that arrested the blow ? I don’t 
know what it was, nor can I tell why I checked my 
impulse of revenge. I only know that by some means 
it was restrained. Had I struck then, it would have 
been serious. Had the blow fallen it might have 
proved fatal I Thank God, I did not strike ! 

“ Coward !” I hissed the word at him through teeth 
that were clenched in the fierceness of my anger. 


IN THE STORM 


157 


“ Coward ! Dog ! Take yourself out of this, if you 
value your wretched life !” 

It was all I said. It was all that, at the moment, I 
seemed to have the power to say. The sight of the 
man made my eyeballs burn. The words I spoke 
seemed to choke me as I spoke them. I hurled the 
whip from me as I said it. I turned and plunged head- 
long among the trees before the overseer could have 
reached me if he had tried. 

That was the end of my Christmas day. Half an 
hour of wild struggle with my own feelings left me 
exhausted. At dusk I crept back to the hut. I threw 
myself into my bunk. In a few minutes I fell asleep. 
It was early morning when I awoke. The first sound 
I heard was the voice of Long Jim at the door of the 
hut. He was talking to the hut-keeper, who was split- 
ting wood outside. 

“Here’s a go, Tom! Gentleman Jenkins has been 
and smashed the young whelp.” 

“The Gentleman!” returned Tom, in a tone of sur- 
prise, pausing at his work. 

“Aye! and by all accounts he did it fairish, too. 
Pity he didn’t finish the young brute !” 

“ Who told ye ?” 

“ Joe. He passed here not five minutes ago, while 
you were after water. He wants some one to help 
with rough riding. I wish I could do it, and get out 
of this hole. There’s none of us here can ride, though, 
I told him, unless it be the Gentleman himself. They 
say he rode once too often for his health.” 

“Well, I’m glad Jenkins showed up for once. I 
always thought there was a spice of the devil about 
him somewhere, though he’s so confoundedly quiet. 
Did he smash the whelp much ?” 

14 


158 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ Joe said he heard it was pretty fair, only not enough 
to keep him quiet. The Gentleman’ll get it hot afore 
he’s much older!” 

“ No harm, either ! He’s the sort that ain’t no good 
till you draws blood. I know’s ’em. As good as gold 
while they’re on the lay. Once put ’em off, and stand 
clear.” 

“ All serene, mate ; it’s like enough we’ll want him 
afore long. The more the merrier 1” 

I have given the substance only of what I heard, 
leaving out the oaths, which would have extended it 
fully a third. 

Long Jim’s footsteps went round towards the other 
huts, and Tom finished splitting his wood. I lay still 
and thought. It was true that I need expect no mercy. 
Could I be punished for what I did ? I had struck no 
actual blow, and all I had done was done in self-defence 
after I was struck by him. I could not be punished 
by law most likely, but what was law in the bush? 
What was law, above all, for a convict ? I thought it 
over ; and as I did so not the scene only but the feelings 
also came back to me. Once more my muscles swelled 
and hardened, and my veins seemed to run molten fire 
in place of blood. Once more my brain seemed to 
burn, and I could feel my eyes dilate and flash. Let it 
come ! I had done no more than any man would do 
when insulted and outraged. I had done nothing like 
that which I had been tempted to do. Let it come ! 

At breakfast I could see that the word had been 
passed around, and that every one knew. They said 
nothing, but they looked at me with a new kind of 
interest which was hardly pleasant. It was as if they 
were disposed to claim friendship with me in a way 
they had never done and I had never desired. I felt 


IN THE STORM 


159 


as if in some way I had taken a step towards becoming 
one of themselves. 

We were just starting for the bush when they 
arrived — the colonel, his nephew, the overseer, and two 
other men. Every one was mounted, and every man 
was armed. I stood in the doorway and looked at 
them as they came up. 

“ Which of them was it ?” asked the colonel, half 
turning to his nephew, who rode behind him. 

“ That scoundrel !” he replied, pointing to me. 

“Ha! That man!” and the colonel knit his heavy 
brows and stared angrily at me under his bushy iron- 
gray eyebrows. I returned his stare without flinching 
and without moving. I think he was amazed at that. 
I fancy he was disappointed. 

“ I’ll crush it ! By heaven, I will ! If I crush every 
scoundrel of the pack along with it! You fellow, 
what’s your name again ?” 

“ Jenkins, colonel,” I replied, shortly. 

“Then, Jenkins, mark me; I told you before you 
came here that if you behaved well you would be well 
treated. I didn’t tell you what would happen if you 
behaved badly, but I’ll show you now. I’ll have no 
mutiny on my station! Will you go quietly?” he 
added, laying a hand as he spoke on the handle of a 
pistol at his holster. 

“ Where to ?” I said, looking him steadily in the face. 

“ To the nearest magistrate, you ruffian !” he an- 
swered, angrily. 

My coolness was exasperating him, I could see. My 
steady look was making him both angry and uncom- 
fortable. 

“ Certainly. I have nothing to fear from justice. I 
can’t say as much for that young man behind you.” 


160 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


As I spoke, the stockman, called Joe, rode up, leading 
a powerful young colt that looked something less than 
half broken. 

“That’s right. We have no time to lose. Can you 
ride, you insolent rascal?” said the colonel, angrily. 

I looked at the old man, and smiled. I thought how 
his stiff lumbering military seat would look over a 
heavy hunting country such as I had been brought 
up to. 

“ A little,” I said, dryly. 

I could see that he noticed the smile. I could easily 
believe that he misunderstood it, but I cared nothing 
for that. 

“ Mount, then,” he said, turning away. 

I flung myself carelessly on the horse’s back. In a 
moment he reared upright, and pawed the air fiercely 
with his fore hoofs. I struck him lightly with my 
open hand behind the ears, and he came down. I had 
raised the devil, however, by my carelessness, and the 
Australian horse-devil is no easy spirit to master. I 
was in the mood to master it now. The devil in the 
horse was as nothing to the same spirit once roused in 
the man, and so he found it. For fully ten minutes the 
struggle lasted, and while it lasted it was fierce. Then 
he gave in. Without a whip, without a spur, I mas- 
tered him. If he had been ten times as strong and ten 
times as wild, I had it in me to master him then. The 
horsemen drew back and looked on while the struggle 
lasted. Only Joe exclaimed, heartily, “ Bravo, mate !” 
when it was evident that I had won the victory. The 
colonel looked on quietly, grimly, with a sort of savage 
satisfaction, I fancied, but with nothing of sympathy. 

At last, with heaving flanks and distended nostrils, 
the horse stood still. The colonel turned his horse and 


IN THE STORM 


161 


rode off. The overseer and one of the men rode beside 
me, one on each side, and each with his hand on a pistol. 
I could see they were afraid of me. My struggle with 
the horse had neither removed nor diminished their 
fear. The fierce excitement of the effort had done me 
good. I was not less fiercely excited than before, but 
I was now more able to control myself. I went silently. 

An hour or so of sharp riding brought us to Turner’s 
station. The house was something like our own, but 
smaller, and with less attempt at beauty. As we 
rode up, the owner came on the veranda to receive us. 

“Hallo, colonel! Another? Hadn’t you better im- 
port a police magistrate on your own account ?” 

The colonel dismounted and went in with him for 
a few minutes while we sat on our horses outside. I 
knew that these men were busy deciding my fate. I 
knew that my case was being settled in the parlor while 
both prisoner and witnesses were sitting out in the 
blazing sun. Strange as it may seem, the knowledge 
seemed to give me little concern. I employed my time 
in observing the house and taking a look at the garden. 
In five minutes they had settled it. We were called in, 
and the overseer, the nephew, and I obeyed the call, 
lea vins: the two men outside with the horses. I had 
no hope of escape, and, strange to say, I had no fear 
of the consequences. As I glanced at the magistrate 
sitting at the end of the table, and looked at the colonel 
sitting near him, it seemed to me that they were the 
persons most interested; that, somehow or other, they 
had most cause to fear. In a sense, at least, I was 
right. The proceedings were short and very simple. 
The colonel was sworn, and said I was a convict, re- 
prieved from the death to which I had been sentenced 
for robbery and murder. I had been duly assigned to 
l 14 * 


162 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


him as a servant, and, though he had not seen much of 
me himself, he had always considered me a dangerous 
and turbulent man. The nephew was sworn, and told 
the story of the assault. To do him justice, he told 
very nearly the facts, and, as he told them, I looked at 
the magistrate. He merely glanced at me in return, 
and took no further notice. 

“ The overseer was also present, if you wish to hear 
him,” remarked the colonel, when his nephew had told 
his story. 

“Ho, I think it is quite unnecessary. The matter 
seems simple enough, I think. Prisoner, have you 
anything to say in answer to this charge ?” 

“ Nothing sir, except this, that having heard the evi- 
dence you will of course acquit me.” 

“ Acquit you ! What the devil do you mean by 
‘ acquit’ you ? The scoundrel’s a bush lawyer, I do 
believe.” 

“ Only this, sir: the assault was committed upon me, 
not by me. All I did was done in self-defence, and I 
never struck a blow, though, as you can see, I got one. 
When you have acquitted me, I have a charge to lay 
against this man who has just given evidence for it.” 

For a moment the magistrate was staggered. I 
could see it in the look he cast on me. I could see it 
also in the look he turned for a moment on the colonel. 
Then the full enormity of the position seemed to dawn 
upon him. He stared at me in open-mouthed surprise 
at my audacity, and a red flush mounted to his face. 

“And that’s all you have to say, is it? A pretty 
pass things are coming to here! Well, colonel, you’ve 
got a very pretty specimen in this fellow — enough to 
corrupt a whole district, and make every convict in it 
fancy himself a free man. I wish you joy of your bar- 


m THE STOKM 


163 


gain. In the mean time,” — he turned to me again, as 
he spoke, — “ in the mean time, you insolent ruffian, the 
court sentences you to five-and-twenty lashes, and, if 
you come before me again, I’ll make it fifty.” 

As he spoke I looked him full in the face. The past, 
with all its associations of pain and wretchedness, with 
all its humanizing associations, also of a life far different 
from this, seemed to fade away and die ; the present, 
with its injustice, violence, and outrage, seemed to draw 
near and close me in. I said nothing ; I only looked at 
him. Then he added, hastily, “ Remove the fellow at 
once, and let the sentence of the court be executed. 
And, colonel, you’ll have some lunch while you wait ?” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


The colonel had lunch with the magistrate, and I — I 
was flogged! The words look simple, cold, and com- 
monplace on paper, but in this they wrong the event. 
The men who talk glibly of corporal punishment and 
its salutary effect — ah, these men talk of what they 
know nothing of! So long as a man is still a man — a 
creature composed of soul as well as of body — so long, 
in other words, as he has not sunk to the level of the 
brute, corporal punishment — really corporal punish- 
ment — is an impossibility. The body, it is true, may 
be struck ; it is the soul that is outraged. The back 
only may show the scars of the lash, but the real scars 
lie deeper and are incurable. 

I did not tamely submit to my fate. What fiercest 
passion, aided by unusual strength, could do against 
numbers I did. The colonel did well to bring force to 
carry out his design, for it was all and more than all 
required. Nevertheless, numbers at last prevailed, and 
the deed was done, the foul deed of outraging and 
degrading an innocent man. I had been flogged — 
publicly flogged as a convict, an outcast, a creature to 
be trampled on and crushed. 

To the storm of rage and despair that swept over 
me there succeeded a great calm that was ominous. 
The blow had fallen at last which could not be effaced : 
the Rubicon was passed which made as well as pro- 
claimed me an enemy of society. 

They released me slowly, for they were not sure 
164 


IN THE STORM 


165 


what I might do on my release; and several of them 
had already more experience than they cared for of 
what I was capable of. They need not have hesitated. 
The temper that resists outrage is usually prompt and 
daring; the temper which takes revenge for wrongs is 
sullen, and bides its time. When released, I looked at 
my persecutors, but I was silent. I replaced the coarse 
shirt over my wounds without a word — without a word 
I stooped and picked up my hat from the place where 
it had fallen when I struggled with six men at once 
and in my fury had nearly conquered my freedom. In 
silence and slowly I turned away. A hand touched 
my arm, and a voice I recalled said in a low tone, 
“Mate!” I turned, and was face to face with Tom 
Mayhew. It was Tom’s face, but it was changed. The 
glance of his eye was no longer free and pleasant, but 
moody and fierce. The tone of his voice was at once 
guarded and bitter, as if bearing with it the sense of 
unuttered wrongs. 

“You, too, Tom?” I muttered, answering the evi- 
dence of his face and of his voice. 

“ Me, too,” he answered, in a sullen whisper. “ Will 
they let you come to the huts and get washed, I 
wonder ?” 

“ Washed ! No, Tom, not washed yet.” 

For an instant he looked at me, and the look was 
returned, and the fire which at the moment seemed to 
be scorching my heart and withering my brain lit up 
his eyes also as he looked at me. 

“Right, mate,” he whispered, “right! Wait till by 
and by.” 

“ Come !” It was the harsh voice of Pinnock the 
overseer that broke in. The tone was not improved, 
and the temper may well have suffered from the blow 


166 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


which he had received in the mouth when he joined the 
others in the attempt to overpower me. 

“ Come ! no more chat ; you fellows are after no 
good when you whisper. You, Jenkins, come along 
with me ! And you,” looking at Tom, who fiercely 
returned his stare, “be off about your own business, 
or you’ll have trouble on your own account, my fine 
fellow.” 

Without a word I followed him back to the house 
and was locked into the woodshed till they were ready 
to go back. I sat on a log and waited. The flogging 
had been severe, and at times a sensation of sickness 
crept over me, but I was totally unconscious of pain. 
My body felt benumbed, but not so my mind. The 
wild feelings of wrong and outrage, the fierce sense of 
bitter helplessness and bitter degradation, these were 
the sensations I felt ; and these burned and lacerated 
my mind till the cold perspiration started on my brow, 
and the great drops of agony trickled down my face, 
and dropped slowly like tears to the ground. I was 
left there, it may have been for an hour — it may have 
been longer — I took no heed of time — while the colonel 
and his nephew had lunch. It might have been for a 
lifetime, so changed was the human being who emerged 
from the shed when it was over and stared round him 
with a dull sense of wonder on the bright sunshine 
and the sparkling flowers. 

Mot a word was spoken. I mounted when the others 
did. I followed the colonel, his nephew, and the over- 
seer back to the station. If the colonel looked at me, 
I did not see it. If his nephew gloried in my degrada- 
tion, I had not even glanced at him to surprise the look 
on his face. We went home. 

My comrades received me with a coarse cordiality. 


IN THE STORM 


167 


They evidently looked on me at last as one of them- 
selves. I saw it, and instinctively I shrank from it. 
This seemed to me the last and worst injury inflicted 
on me; the crowning degradation, to which all the 
others led up. Yet my companions were right. I had 
become one of themselves. I could not take part in 
their coarse conversation nor enjoy their coarse stories 
and their foul jokes more than formerly, indeed, but I 
felt with them now, and had no longer any sympathy 
with their oppressors. The colonel had forced me to 
take my place, and he had convinced me for the time 
at least that my place was with the convicts. 

For two days I stayed at the huts, and I had plenty 
of time for thought. For my own peace of mind I 
should have been better — infinitely better — at the 
hardest work. They were awful days to me, more 
awful by far than the day of the mock trial and the 
hideous execution. A human soul does not sink without 
a struggle, as mine was sinking then. On one side was 
ranged my past life with all its influences, all its im- 
pulses for good ; on the other the intolerable sense of 
wrong, and the burning fire of shame and indignation 
which seemed to drive back every better and nobler 
feeling, and to concentrate itself into one fierce craving 
for revenge. A nd the past life was distant and shadowy ; 
the present wrongs were urgent and terrible. Eeligion 
might have turned the scale, perhaps, but religion was 
to me a thing of custom, habit, and surroundings. In 
the moment of need, religion was but a name. In the 
death struggle of the soul, it was no more than a legend 
of the past. 

Does this seem strange ? If so, try to think of my 
case. Try to place yourself for one short hour in my 
position, and I venture to say you will understand it 


168 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


better. Here was I, an innocent man, conscious of his 
innocence, degraded from my place among men to the 
level of a beast, made to herd with criminals, insulted, 
outraged, and all without fault of my own. No, it 
is not strange. Only a superhuman power could have 
upheld me and saved me, then. 

I was no longer so carefully excluded from the plans 
of my companions as formerly, and I found that they 
were dangerous. The new country had been unfor- 
tunate in its first settlers. The dangerous feeling was 
a wide-spread one, and communication between the 
plotters was well established and frequent. The cruel- 
ties and oppressions of Turner had for many months 
made him a marked man ; and now the sudden and 
fierce severity of the colonel had put him too into the 
black list. Arms only were wanting now to make a 
score of desperate convicts into a score of desperate 
bushrangers, and to bring down a terrible vengeance 
on their masters. 

Of course I did not learn this all at once. Even in 
the huts such subjects were not openly discussed. It 
was only little by little, from a hint dropped here and 
whispered talk overheard there, passing from bunk to 
bunk in the darkness of the night, that I gradually 
learned the state of matters. 

Shall I tell the whole truth ? Yes, I rejoiced ! It 
had even come to this, I was glad. The idea of re- 
venge, a full, bitter, sudden revenge, was the one idea 
which seemed to afford me relief. Had I given way to 
my feelings I should have waited for nothing. Oh, to 
have once more that sleek- faced young tiger at my feet 
as I had him once, when I spared him ! Oh, to measure 
out to that haughty, cruel old man som small share 
of that misery and suffering which cons :ned my heart 


IN THE STOKM 


169 


as if with fire. If I had obeyed my impulse I should 
have gone straight to the house and taken my chance 
of revenge, even with the certainty of death. 

But no. It was a foolish impulse. I should have 
failed of revenge. I should not have failed to get shot. 
At the time I cared nothing for life for its own sake, 
but it became basely precious to me as a means of retri- 
bution on others. Unarmed and desperate, I could but 
die : with patience I might at least die fearfully avenged. 
So I waited. I listened to what fell from the others, 
and, though I said nothing, I think not one of them 
doubted my readiness to join in any scheme of ven- 
geance, however desperate it might be. At my work 
I brooded over my wrongs : with an axe in my hand I 
struck each blow as if it were the death-blow of an 
enemy. By night I listened to plots, and I slept only 
to dream of revenge. 

Once and once only I went back to my Sunday 
lounging-place. It was on the Sunday after I first 
heard of the schemes of vengeance that were on foot. 
I went to think over what I had heard ; to reckon up 
the chances of our success, and the time likely still to 
elapse before the hour could arrive. Grimly I watched 
the tall figure of the colonel as he paced the long 
veranda. I watched with a glow of fierce satisfac- 
tion the slighter form of his nephew smoking a cigar 
on a lounge at one end. My imagination was busy 
with a far different scene, when these two should see 
at last that they must reap as they had sown. I could 
fancy I saw the flames bursting through the roof and 
hear the sharp reports of pistols and the stern voices 
of men to whom life was nothing and revenge every- 
thing. And then, as I looked, I saw a figure in white 
come out on the veranda and trip down the steps 
h 15 


170 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


lightly into the garden. In an instant a thought struck 
me. And what of her? She was utterly a stranger 
to me. I had never seen her much more nearly than I 
saw her now. But she was a girl, and in her pure 
dress and broad hat she looked young, graceful, inno- 
cent. She at least had done no wrong. What of her 
in the hour of vengeance? Crushed, changed, em- 
bittered to the brink of crime, I was in some ways a 
gentleman still. There were still thoughts I could not 
face, and this was one of them. I started up. I turned 
my back upon the place. I shut out that slight girlish 
figure from my sight. I went no more to look at the 
house. W as the sign a good or a bad one ? Bad, I think. 
My intention had not changed. I would only shut my 
eyes to the consequences. 

The summer was dry and very hot. Mot a drop of 
rain fell, and the burning sun and hot wind seemed to 
parch the ground and banish every vestige of moisture. 
One evening about the middle of February or a little 
earlier, when I got home from the range, I saw the 
overseer and Joe the stockman standing at the hut 
waiting. None of us liked the overseer, but Joe was 
a general favorite among the hands. As I came up I 
nodded to Joe and took no notice of his companion. 

“Sulky still, eh?” exclaimed Pinnock, with a short, 
uneasy laugh. “ Come, come, Jenkins, drop that now, 
my man. It wasn’t my doing you got into trouble ; 
and for my share you paid me out with two broken 
teeth. You needn’t keep it up.” 

I thought his voice sounded as if he was uneasy, and 
I was glad of it. As he spoke, I turned to him ; as he 
went on I looked him steadily in the face. I dare say 
the look was hardly a pleasant one ; at any rate his 
face fell and his tone changed as he continued, hastily, — 


IN THE STORM 


171 


“ How would you fancy a new job for a bit?” I 
glanced at Joe, and I understood his meaning. 

“ I don’t much care,” I replied. “ What is it?” 

“Joe wants another hand to help with the beasts, 
and he thinks you’ll do. You’d better have a try at it 
anyhow. You can go with Joe in the morning instead 
of going back to the bush.” 

He turned and went into the hut. I could see that 
he was annoyed at the failure of his attempt at recon- 
ciliation, and I wondered if he suspected that mischief 
was preparing among the hands. When he was gone I 
turned to Joe. He came up to me and spoke cordially. 

“ Look here, mate !” he said. “ Give us a hand, will 
you? it’s work I think you’ll like when once you’re 
used to it, and I think I’ll be about as good company 
as some you’ve got here. I know you can ride, and 
you’ll want to. The very mischief won’t keep these 
beasts in one place this weather, and unless we have 
rain soon we’ll have the devil’s own mess with them. 
You’ll give us a hand, won’t you ?” 

I looked in the man’s face : it was uncultivated, but 
honest and friendly. I held out my hand, and he 
grasped it. It was the grasp of man to man, not the 
greeting of man to slave. The contract was ratified then. 

“ All right, mate,” I said. “ What time do you start 
in the morning?” 

“ I’ll bring round a horse about four. We’ll get 
tucker up the ranges.” 

“ All right ; I’ll be ready !” 

As I went into the hut the overseer came out. He 
looked at me as if he were half inclined to speak again. 
I waited till he passed, but took no notice. So I changed 
my employment again — so Providence gave me one 
more chance of escape ! 


CHAPTER XI Y. 


The change of employment was a new life. The con- 
trast, indeed, of the old and the new was almost as 
great as the contrast between that and the life that 
was older still. To cast off the drudgery of the bush 
labor and the constant society of men whose ideas 
were always debased and their language always coarse 
and disgusting, was in itself an infinite relief. To be 
free of the dingy hut, with its sordid surroundings and 
its foul inmates, this was like a resurrection to a new 
life. 

The work was both hard and constant. The season 
was unfavorable for cattle, and the station was as yet 
almost entirely a cattle station. Two previous seasons 
had been dry, and this third one promised to be even 
drier than they had been. For months there had not 
been a drop of rain. The long rolling plains, covered 
with herbage, indeed, but dry and brown, offered little 
to tempt the beasts, while the absolute want of water in 
the accustomed places made them wander further and 
further. The streams of other seasons had dwindled 
first to water-holes, and already the water-holes were 
nearly all dry or reduced to swampy spots, puddled by 
the feet of the cattle. More and more the cattle scat- 
tered, and our work — that is Joe’s and mine — was to 
look after those on the western side of the run and see 
that they did not wander too far from water. Many a 
day Joe and I rode over wide stretches of plain where 
not a sign of life was visible but a few kangaroos or an 
172 


IN THE STORM 


173 


emu or two stalking, stately and solitary. Many a 
night we camped at the foot of some giant gum-tree 
which rose weird and grey overhead, as if in silent 
protest against the rash disturbers of its ancient soli- 
tary reign. Joe was not much of a talker, and silence 
was generally a relief to me, so we were a well- 
assorted pair. I have often caught him looking at me 
with a curious wistful expression when he thought I 
didn’t see him, as if he would fain have learned more 
of my history, but dare not ask me. I made no sign. 

I had my choice of the young half-broken horses, 
and the one I chose had given me a great deal of 
trouble at first. He was worth it all. He was wild, 
and hard to master, indeed, but he was swift, strong, 
and of remarkable endurance. Before I had ridden him 
for a month he and I thoroughly understood each other, 
and he would submit to no one else. To me he was 
like a friend, and I learned to fancy that he knew and 
sympathized with my moods ; sometimes he appeared 
almost to know my thoughts. At my new work I had 
greater opportunities of seeing and learning what went 
on at the home station and the house than formerly. 
To the house, indeed, in accordance with the colonel’s 
rule, I never went. I often went to report for orders 
to the overseer’s house, and Joe often went up to “ The 
Hall,” as I now found it was called by those privileged 
to go there ; but I never went nearer than the entrance 
of the field known as the “ Home paddock.” Still, I 
saw more both of the people and their habits than 
before. I often saw the colonel and his nephew — “ the 
captain,” he was called — at a distance, though I care- 
fully avoided anything like close contact with either of 
them. Frequently, too, I saw one or other of them 
accompanying a lady on horseback — no doubt the same 

15 * 


174 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


I had seen on the last Sunday I had stood gazing at 
the house. I could bear better to look at her now. 
The life I now was leading was a healthier life, and if I 
had not definitely abandoned the dreams of vengeance 
which had so fearfully occupied my mind, they were at 
least in abeyance. There was something that pleased 
my eye in the sight of this girl at a distance, something 
easy and graceful in her seat and in her bearing. I 
had always thought a graceful woman was never so 
graceful as on horseback, a young and beautiful woman 
never so enchanting as when well mounted. This girl, 
even at a distance, reminded me of scenes long passed 
away, and, strange to say, the sight of her did not 
recall these scenes with pain. 

So the days and weeks passed, and still I remained 
at my new work. Still the drought grew more intense 
and the toil of our work grew greater. To me this 
part of it was nothing. I liked the toil — it kept me 
from thinking. I enjoyed the constant movement and 
excitement of the life, for these kept me from dwelling 
upon the past, or trying vainly to forecast the future. 

It was about the first week in March, and the weather 
was frightfully hot. Joe and I had for the last three 
days been trying to find a mob of cattle which had 
strayed away to the westward about a fortnight before. 
We had come on their tracks the night before, and all 
day long we had followed them towards the ranges. 
Since nine in the morning we had not come across a 
sign of water, and we and our horses were both pretty 
nearly exhausted by four o’clock in the afternoon, be- 
neath a burning sun and with the wind that came hot 
and scorching from the north, making the skin of our 
faces dry and harsh. 

The cattle had been here not long ago. We could 


IN THE STORM 


175 


see where they had strayed, biting and breaking the 
small shrubs that abounded, but we could not be certain 
which way they had gone. We both dismounted and 
searched for tracks. It was important now to do this, 
for we were just outside the system of gullies that ran 
up into the ranges between the spurs which now lay 
before us, rising gradually like buttresses to the full 
height of the western range, perhaps a thousand feet 
high, and crowned with forest. If we struck the 
wrong gully we should miss the beasts altogether, for 
once in the gully, we should be unable to see or hear 
anything beyond it. After some time lost in trying 
unsuccessfully to make sure, Joe shouted to me to try 
the gully to the right and he would try the other. I 
mounted and rode forward. At first I saw traces of 
cattle, and thought I must be on the right track. I 
rode hastily on till I fairly opened the gully before me. 
It was wild, solitary, and beautiful with tree-ferns, 
shrubs, and wild flowers that sprang from each hollow, 
overhung the rocks, and blazed in masses of rich color 
on the slopes, but there was not a sign of the cattle. 
A frightened bandicoot scudded across the track, and 
a hundred parrots screamed at me in harsh tones from 
the bushes, but there were no other signs of life. I 
reined up “ Fireking,” — the name given to my horse, in 
memory of some escape from bush fire of which he 
was the hero as a colt, — and, shading my eyes, tried to 
find some trace of the missing beasts. There was none. 
They could not be in the gully, and it would be vain 
to go further. I wheeled Fireking and rode slowly 
back. Suddenly I came on the track again. It turned 
sharply aside towards the dividing range between my 
gully and the next, only a little way inside the en- 
trance. Even to my inexperienced eye this seemed 


176 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


strange. I followed it and was still more surprised to 
see that the track was clear and well defined. The 
cattle had not strayed about to feed, but had followed 
one aiiother in the same track. It dawned upon me in 
an instant : they had been driven. In the sudden ex- 
citement of the new idea, I touched Fireking with the 
spur, and he bounded forward. In less than a minute 
we reached the crown of the dividing range, and I 
looked into the gully selected by Joe. It was a broader 
one than mine, and must usually have had a strong 
stream of water through it. I could see the water- 
course winding along the bottom, overhung by droop- 
ing ferns and thick clumps of various shrubs, but the 
stones in its course now glittered brightly in the sun- 
shine, and there was not a trace of water as far as my 
eye could follow it up the little valley. 

I looked round for Joe, but there was no sign of 
either horse or rider. I raised a long “coo-ee!” to 
attract his attention, but the scattered boulders on the 
opposite ridge alone gave me back an answer. He 
must have gone on. I let Fireking go, and cantered 
along on the track of the cattle. As I went I reflected. 
I had no experience, indeed, but one thing was pretty 
clear even to me : if the cattle had been driven, they 
had been driven by blacks, for we were the only white 
men in the district. I had heard a good deal of blacks, 
but had never seen any. It was said that they were 
great thieves, and sometimes very dangerous, but this 
gave me little concern. In my state of mind an adven- 
ture of any kind would be a pleasant excitement, and 
the element of danger had no terror whatever. I shook 
Fireking’s rein and hurried on. 

The track led down the slope into the gully, and I 
followed it. Then it crossed the dry watercourse, and 


IN THE STORM 


177 


I followed it up the opposite bank. Then it turned up 
towards the range. I paused. If Joe had come as far 
as this he must have seen the track and followed it. 
If he had not come as far, he had gone back, and was 
waiting for me. I rose in my stirrups and once more 
gave the wild, piercing “ coo-ee” of the country. Then 
I listened. Far away it echoed and re-echoed, first on 
one side of the gully, then on the other, but it brought 
no answering shout. I decided that he had gone on, and 
that some bend of the gully had cut off the sound either 
from him or from me. Once more I touched the horse 
with the spur, shook the rein, and followed the track. 

The afternoon sun poured hot and scorching across 
the gully. The huge boulders that strewed the slopes 
and the tall, feathery tree-ferns and scattered sheock- 
trees that grew here and there threw shadows that 
were growing longer from the west, but it was blazing 
hot still. However, it was a likely place, and there 
was good hope of finding water-holes near the top of 
the creek. Fireking seemed to know this, for he hur- 
ried on at a sharp canter. It was a long gully, and 
the track led up the middle of it. I must have ridden 
a good two miles before it bent suddenly to the west- 
ward, and I got the full blaze of the sun in my face. 
The gully was growing narrower, too, and the bush on 
the slopes was thicker and stronger. I stopped, and 
putting both hands to my mouth, gave a prolonged 
“ coo-ee” once more. It was strange how wildly and 
shrilly it came back to me, but as I paused to listen I 
thought I heard a reply far up the valley. It sounded 
distant and faint, but it was not the echo of my own 
shout, but another. I thought of the blacks, and the 
blood rushed over me with a sudden glow. This time 
I did my best to rouse Fireking to something more 
m 


178 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


than a canter, and I succeeded. The horse seemed to 
know and to share my excitement, for he pricked up 
his ears and started forward at a long stretching gallop 
along the sandy bottom of the gully. Another bend, 
and it opened into a comparatively wide spot like a 
basin, fenced in by the range on all sides but that by 
which we entered. 

Yes, it was Joe and some at least of the cattle. Joe 
had headed them back, and was driving them towards 
me. When I came in sight they were just reaching 
the place where the gully grew narrow. One or two 
of the foremost beasts were passing close to the high 
scrub which came down the right-hand ridge nearly to 
the edge of the watercourse. The cattle were going 
steadily enough. I could see they must have had 
water, so I pushed on in the hope of getting some for 
Fireking and myself. 

Suddenly I saw half a dozen dark figures rise out of 
the scrub alongside the leading beast and a half-dozen 
spears strike the two foremost. With a loud bellow 
they turned on their tracks and rushed back on the 
others, causing a stampede. It was in vain that Joe 
tried to turn them ; they passed him in an instant. 
Another moment and I could see that the spears were 
being thrown at him. He turned his horse as if to 
reach the more open ground, but he had gone only a 
few yards when another party of five or six sprang out 
of the scrub on the other side and began to throw spears 
at him, too. With a yell of excitement I stuck my 
spurs into Fireking’s flanks and charged down upon 
them at full gallop, with no weapon but a long stock- 
whip which I had taken a special pride in learning to 
use. 

Before I could reach the place, several spears had 


IN THE STORM 


179 


struck Joe’s horse, which staggered and fell. Joe 
started to his feet and was in the very act of pointing 
the carbine he always carried slung across his back at 
his assailants when a spear struck him also. I could 
see him stagger and let his gun fall. With a wild yell 
the blacks ran in closer. In the excitement they had 
not noticed me till I was close to them. Then with a 
shout wilder, I dare say, if possible, than their own, I 
struck with my long whip at the nearest as I came 
on. The long snake-like lash struck him in the face 
and he staggered and fell. In a moment I was among 
them. Doubling the heavy thong repeatedly in my 
hand I struck right and left with the short heavily- 
loaded handle of the whip. I have mentioned that I 
was an unusually powerful man, and now I was wild 
with anger and excitement. At each blow I seemed to 
strike a man, and each man when struck seemed to go 
down as if struck by lightning. In a moment they 
broke with wild yells of fear, and took to flight up the 
gully while I spurred Fireking after them. Unused to 
horses, and still more unaccustomed to such a weapon as 
I was using, they were evidently panic-struck, rushing 
in their fear past a score of places where my horse 
could not have followed them. Gradually first one and 
then another darted into the scrub, scarcely one having 
retained his spears in his flight. 

By the time the last had escaped, I had got close to 
a water-hole not yet dried up, and here I could see, 
from the ashes and the scattered bones, what had been 
the fate of one at least of our beasts. I paused and 
dismounted. It was necessary that both Fireking and 
I should drink, even if it were not altogether safe. 
Then I mounted and rode hastily back to where I had 
left Joe. His horse lay dead by the side of the track, 


180 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


and Joe himself was sitting on the ground leaning 
against the body. I threw myself from Fireking as I 
came up, exclaiming, — 

“Not much hurt, Joe, I hope!” 

He turned his head and looked at me in a stupid hesi- 
tating kind of way, quite different from his usual manner. 

“ I don’t know, mate, I feel very queer. You fright- 
ened those black devils off?” 

“ More than that, I expect, so far as some of them go,” 
I replied, with a keen sense of satisfaction ; “there’s two 
or three of them won’t go very far, I fancy, yet awhile !” 

“ That’s right, mate — though, poor devils, they don’t 
know no better, I dare say.” 

I raised him in my arms and found the place where 
he had pulled out the spear. It was in his side, and it 
didn’t seem to have bled much. 

“ Oh,” I said, “ you’ll be all right presently. I had 
better get you out of this, though. These niggers will 
be back again, I dare say.” 

With a great deal of difficulty, for he seemed nearly 
powerless to help himself, I got him upon Fireking 
and mounted behind him. I had to pass my arm round 
him to hold him on, and he leaned against my breast. 
Fortunately the horse w T as strong, and the water seemed 
to have restored him, so that he was able to canter 
slowly with our double weight. The level sun was just 
dipping behind the range when I got clear of the gully, 
and very glad I felt to get clear of it and to see the 
long stretch of open country before me. 

I went as easily as I could, for the sake of my com- 
panion. Occasionally I spoke to him, but he only an- 
swered sleepily, and as if he disliked the exertion. I 
grew more and more uncomfortable both in body and 
mind, as his body seemed to press against me more and 


IN THE STORM 


181 


more as a dead weight, but there was nothing for it 
but to push on. 

The rose tints faded from the plain in front and then 
from the sky overhead. One by one the quiet, soft, 
liquid stars shone out with a calm lustre. Little by little 
it grew dark ; and yet we journeyed on. I knew the di- 
rection of the home station, and with that strange life- 
less-feeling burden leaning against me I dared not stop. 

For hours I rode on slowly under the silent stars, 
and I was more than half benumbed by Joe’s weight 
pressing upon me as I rode. At last I let the horse 
stop. I spoke to Joe, but he gave me no answer. 
Slowly and painfully I contrived to dismount, still sup- 
porting him in the saddle. Then I let him go and he 
slipped slowly from the saddle into my arms and thence 
to the ground. Benumbed as I was, I can hardly say 
that I lifted him down. I somehow knew that my 
comrade was gone ! 

That was a strange, wild night to me. Out there on 
the wide plain — the only human being within miles. I 
sat sorrowfully beside Joe’s body on the harsh brown 
grass, the night wind sighing with a strange ghostly 
“ swish” across the plain, and the pale, sorrowful- 
looking stars gazing down on the scene. I was very 
lonely. Joe had been not exactly a friend, but at least 
very cordial and friendly to me — the nearest thing to a 
friend I had known in my degradation. 

At last weariness overcame me. The stars overhead 
grew watery and misty and danced strangely before 
my eyes. The sound of the monotonous night breeze 
with its changeless whisper soothed my ears ; and at 
last I sank quietly to sleep with my head on my saddle 
and my right arm thrown protectingly over the dead 
body of Joe at my side. 


16 


CHAPTEK XY, 


It was broad daylight when I awoke, and as I sat 
up I startled a great bird like a crow which had perched 
on the ground a few paces off. I understood it. What 
I had been slow to discover last night the bird had 
discovered at daybreak. Joe was dead. I ate a few 
mouthfuls of the food we carried, and then caught 
Fireking and saddled him. Then slowly and reverently 
I lifted Joe and set him on the horse and mounted 
behind him once more. I had no means of burying 
his body, and I couldn’t leave it to the crow. 

Dead! And I carrying him home. The idea was 
strange and ghastly. The solitude of his death, the 
strangeness of that ghastly death-bed on the horse, 
slowly pacing under the silent stars, — everything 
about the event awoke busy trains of thought, and 
strange images in my mind as I clasped the dead body 
of my comrade, and made my slow way across the 
long deserted plain. 

It was afternoon when I came in sight of the home 
station and rode slowly towards the overseer’s quarters. 
Before I could reach the place three persons on horse- 
back seemed to notice and come to meet me. I would 
gladly have avoided them, but I felt that I must go on. 
I could see that the colonel was one of the party long 
before he came up. As he came near he evidently 
noticed that something was amiss, for he quickened 
his pace and rode up hastily. 

182 


IN THE STORM 


183 


“ Hallo !” he exclaimed, “ you, sir, what’s that you’ve 
got?” 

“Joe, sir,” I answered, simply. “He’s dead!” 

“ Head ! How’s that ? What does it all mean ?” 

His voice was as usual stern and peremptory, but at 
the moment I didn’t seem to feel it as I had done at 
other times. I held my dead comrade in my arms, 
and many a strange and solemn thought that had 
lately passed through my mind was with me still. 

“ Killed,” I said. “ Speared by the blacks last night 
up at the western range.” 

“ Last night ! And you’ve brought him from there 
since then ?” 

“It couldn’t be done,” said another voice, which I 
knew and remembered only too well, with a slight 
affected drawl in his tone. “It’s thirty miles if it’s one, 
colonel. The fellow’s most likely lying, I should say.” 

I half turned and faced him as he came near. My 
eye caught his and held it for an instant. He turned 
hastily away. 

“Kate!” he exclaimed, “this is no sight for you. 
Let me take you back, unless you prefer to ride on.” 

Unconsciously I followed his words. My eyes, as he 
spoke, followed his eyes. I started. There within ten 
yards of us, sitting lightly and easily on her horse, was 
the girl I had seen that last day on board the convict- 
ship. There were the same large pitiful eyes, the same 
tender mouth, the same gentle maidenly look of sym- 
pathy and feeling. And I — at the moment I was 
looking at her with eyes that blazed with a sense of 
resentment and wrong across the dead body of my 
comrade, Joe. 

Yes, it was she ! I could not be mistaken in that 
face. I could not be in error about those eyes. I 


184 


THE TKACK OF A STOKM 


stared at her wonderingly, stupidly, the fire of passion 
dying out of my own eyes as I looked. The colonel 
spoke again. 

“Well, at any rate let us be just. You are Jenkins, 
are you not ?” At the name I thought Miss Malcolm 
started a little and moved nearer. 

“ Yes, sir, Jenkins,” I replied. 

“ Where did this happen ?” 

“ In one of the gullies running up into the western 
range.” 

“ What were you doing there ?” 

“ Looking after a mob of beasts that had strayed.” 

“And the blacks, did they attack you?” 

“No, sir, they attacked him before I came up” 

“And you — do you say you found him, or rescued 
him ?” 

“ A little of both, sir. I frightened the blacks off. 
I don’t know that I didn’t kill one or two of them.” 

“ What weapons had you ?” 

“This, sir!” I said, indicating the whip hung round 
my shoulder. 

“A whip! You faced the blacks, you say, with a 
whip ?” 

“Certainly, sir. I had nothing else to face them 
with.” 

He looked at me steadily and searchingly for a 
moment ; then he said, “ Am I to believe this?” 

I think my face must have flushed. I believe my 
indignation must have shown itself in my eyes, but I 
only said, — 

“ As you please, colonel. I shouldn’t wonder if there 
was a black or two in the gully still.” 

“ Dead, you mean ?” 

“ Dead, I mean, colonel.” 


IN THE STORM 


185 


He looked at me strangely and suspiciously, yet with 
an expression of doubt. At that moment Miss Malcolm 
touched him on the arm. He looked round hastily. 

“ What is it, my dear ?” he said. “ I thought you had 
gone. You had better ride on with Reginald.” 

“ Ho, papa, not yet. That’s the man I told you about. 
That is the man who rescued the little boy.” 

u That ! Yes, yes, I remember ! but that has nothing 
to do with this atfair.” 

Once more I gazed in her face. Once more I seemed 
powerless to withdraw my eyes, while she spoke. 

“ I think it has, papa. People don’t risk their lives 
to save children and then murder other people, do 
they ?” 

It was said so quietly that it carried conviction. The 
colonel hesitated and looked at me. 

“ You are sure it is the same, Kate ?” he said, irreso- 
lutely. 

“ Quite certain, papa.” 

“ Y ery well ; at any rate we can go and see. I dare 
say you are right, though. Here, you Jenkins — take 
him on to Mr. Pinnock’s house and tell him I want him 
here.” 

Slowly I withdrew my eyes ; reluctantly I turned 
away. The last I saw of her she was looking after 
me. The last impression she left on my mind was one 
of pity and sympathy. 

I took Joe to the overseer’s and gave him the mes- 
sage. Then I rode back again along with him. Miss 
Malcolm and the captain had gone, but the colonel was 
where I had left him. As we came up he looked hard 
at me, but said nothing. When we pulled up he said 
to the overseer, — 

“ I suppose you have heard Jenkins’s account of this 
16 * 


186 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


unfortunate business, Pinnock. I think he had better 
take us to see the place. We’ll start at daybreak to- 
morrow. You had better come, too.” 

Next morning we started. We reached the gully 
and, to my surprise, found it undisturbed. The remains 
of Joe’s horse were still there, though much torn by 
birds, and the three spears were still sticking in his 
carcass. There were also three dead blacks lying as 
they had fallen when I struck them with the whip- 
handle. The blacks had evidently decamped without 
coming back even to look for their spears, which still 
lay scattered where they had dropped them. 

It was enough. Even the captain could not deny 
that my story was fully corroborated beyond the possi- 
bility of doubt. We had no means of burying the dead 
blacks, so we went home, driving the cattle before us, 
and leaving the dead where we had found them. For 
aught I know their bones still bleach amidst the flowers 
and ferns of that lonely gully. 

Before we got home again the body of my poor com- 
rade had been buried. 


CHAPTER XYI. 


Although severe and suspicious, the colonel could 
be just. The result of his investigation was favorable 
to me, and, in spite of prejudice against me, he admitted 
it. To me, indeed, he only said, “ That’s all right, Jen- 
kins,” but he told the overseer to keep me at the same 
work, and in fact to put me in Joe’s position. It was 
wise in his own interests, no doubt, for we were now 
very short-handed with stockmen, and I had learned 
much while I worked with Joe, but it was a great boon 
to me. 

I was sorry for Joe’s loss, but I hardly missed his 
company. In fact, I was glad to be alone and to work 
alone. Solitude was at the time the greatest relief of 
which my mind seemed capable. The first bitterness 
of the sense of shame, outrage, and humiliation which 
had lashed and goaded me to seek revenge was already 
blunted. It was still present, indeed, and to think of 
it was to rouse it again in something approaching its 
original force and bitterness. The change was apparent 
in the fact that I only thought of it now and then. I 
threw myself fiercely into my work. I took pride in 
doing more than other men could do, in riding faster 
and farther than other stockmen attempted to ride. 
The attempt to do more gave a special interest to my 
employment ; and mere physical exertion was an ano- 
dyne to my mind and saved me from brooding on the 
maddening past. 

Yes, and there was something else. In my hours of 

187 


188 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


loneliness I was no longer quite alone. As I rode, a 
face floated before me so vividly that I could almost 
see it with my bodily eyes : soft, golden-brown hair 
shadowing a smooth white brow and a pair of large 
grey eyes, — eyes that were so calm, and yet so full of 
pity and of sympathy that the vision of them brought 
a strange moisture to my own. There was the charm 
of youth, of freshness, and of beauty of no common 
sort in the face, but it was the innocent purity of that 
brow and the tender sympathy of those eyes that 
haunted me by day and made my dreams by night. 
It is strange, but in a sense I was happier. Often and 
often, when my bitter fate and the burning conscious- 
ness of wrong and injury swelled my heart and made 
my eyes blaze with resentment, that face would come 
between, and, like a vision from a better world, would 
gradually efface the burning sense of disgrace and the 
gnawing desire of revenge. Was this love? I never 
asked myself — nay, I never even thought of the ques- 
tion. For me it was enough to worship those eyes and 
to live under the soft spell of that face. A dream of 
possession would have seemed to me then a desecration. 
If it was love, it was the love of a devotee to the Virgin, 
— a passion, indeed, but a passion that had little or 
nothing of earth about it. 

I went on with my work, and the weather showed 
no sign of change. Day after day the same golden 
river of sunshine was poured without abatement on 
the already burned and heated earth. Day after day 
not a sign of moisture in the air, no hope of relief 
from the dry and stifling atmosphere. By the middle 
of March water was scarce anywhere ; by the end of 
the month it was scarcely obtainable for the cattle. 
Of course the work grew harder and more anxious. 


IN THE STORM 


189 


Even the horses felt it now, and except Fireking not 
one of the stockmen’s beasts was in good working con- 
dition. It may have been the result of old prejudices, 
or it may have been some strange forecast of the future 
that made me anxious about my own horse, but through 
it all he at least was well cared for. Whatever was 
neglected, Fireking never was. Whatever beast went 
without food, or had short allowance of water, he at 
least was well provided for. And he fully repaid my 
care. Whether, according to his name, he really had 
some affinity for heat, I cannot say, but he certainly 
throve in it. While other horses looked wretched and 
grew weak, Fireking had never before seemed so vig- 
orous or so powerful as he did now. 

On the 8th of April — while I live I am not likely to 
forget that date — I had come in to the overseer with 
my report of the cattle on my side of the run. In- 
sensibly I had gained a surly kind of confidence from 
this man. No reference was ever made between 
us to the past, no advance to anything like friendli- 
ness for the future. He was a shrewd, hard-headed 
though coarse sort of man, and he knew when he 
was well served. I was now doing the work of two 
men at a time when the work was specially severe, 
and he knew it. 

“ All right, Jenkins,” he said, when I had given him 
all the information he wanted. “ Is your horse pretty 
fresh? But I see he is. How do you always manage 
to keep him in such a condition ?” 

“ I take good care of him. A good horse always 
pays for that.” 

“Well, I wish you would teach these confounded 
boundary riders the trick, then, for if this goes on we 
won’t have a horse fit to ride directly. Here’s Dick’s 


190 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


horse knocked up on the other side the range, and the 
beasts off into the big scrub.” 

“ You want me to go and give a hand, I suppose ?” I 
said, quietly, as he stopped, for of course he knew he 
was asking a good deal from a man who did as much 
on his own side as these two fellows did on their side. 

“Yes,” he said, a little sulkily; “yes, I think you 
had better go over and give them a hand, for if these 
beasts get well into that scrub there isn’t a drop of 
water, and I hear the blacks have been seen on the 
other side.” 

“All right. I suppose Jack’s gone on with a fresh 
horse ?” 

“ Yes, about an hour ago. I expect you’ll catch him 
up on this side of the range. By the by,” he added, as 
I was riding off, “ Captain Malcolm’s gone up that way; 
I fancy you don’t much care about meeting him, so 
you can look out.” 

I waved my hand to him, and rode off. 

It had been an exceedingly close, oppressive day. 
Even with all the experience I had lately had of hot 
weather, this day was exceptional. It was intensely 
hot, but it was not bright. There was a heavy feeling 
in the stagnant air, a misty appearance in the blue sky, 
which were new to me. As I rode away I wondered 
what they meant and whether they were the forerun- 
ners of a change. Then my thoughts went back to 
Captain Malcolm, and I hoped I should avoid meeting 
him. This man was not only distasteful to me ; I was 
conscious of a feeling towards him that came short of 
perfect hatred only because it came so near to contempt. 

I was less anxious to overtake Jack the stockman 
than to spare Fireking, who had already travelled some 
distance, so I didn’t hurry, but rode slowly on, en- 


IN THE STOKM 


191 


grossed with my own thoughts, and I found myself 
mounting the range before I had noticed how far I 
had come without overtaking him. Like most ranges 
in the district, this one was of no great height. The 
apparently level but really undulating country, of 
which most of the run consisted, was here upheaved 
into a low irregular range, forming a watershed per- 
haps two hundred feet high. The higher ground was 
generally rugged, and was covered with scrubby forest 
and brushwood, with here and there a tall old gum, 
looking gaunt and solitary as it soared above the rest. 
The land on either side ran down in low spurs, which 
fell away into gullies where there were streams in 
winter and water-holes as a rule in summer, and out 
of which grew grey gum-trees with an undergrowth 
of the dismal black wattle. 

I glanced round me and saw that I was ascending 
the slope between two of these gullies, following a well- 
defined cattle-track. I noticed also that the sun was 
beginning to slope towards the west, showing that it 
was between three and four o’clock, so I shook the rein 
and spoke to Fireking, who responded by breaking at 
once into a sharp canter. In another ten minutes or 
so we had reached the top of the slope, and then I 
pulled up, as I was no longer sure of my track. The 
ragged bush around me was high enough to prevent 
my getting a good view, but I chose the track which 
appeared to have been most used, and cantered on. 
The breeze was strong now and was increasing. It 
blew directly in my face, but it brought no relief from 
the stifling heat. On the contrary, it seemed to make 
matters worse. The air at rest on the home side of 
the range had been sultry and heavy : the air in motion 
was like the blast from a furnace ; it scorched as it 


192 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


blew. I looked anxiously at the sky. It was still of 
the same faded-looking blue color, with a hazy film over 
it which made it look grey. There was not a cloud, so 
there was no motion overhead. I rode on. 

The range sloped more abruptly on the side I had 
now reached, and I was soon on the level land again. 
Then the scrub which had covered the higher ground 
gave way and I was once more in the open. I pulled 
up and looked about me. The breeze had already 
freshened into a high wind and bade fair to freshen to 
a gale. Already the trees creaked and bent before it 
and the tall scrub swayed and rustled. Still the wind 
was hot and painful to the eyes, and even its strength 
seemed to impart no coolness to it. I shaded my eyes 
to get a better view. The first thing I saw appeared 
to be two horsemen. As they came nearer I could see 
that one was a lady. They were riding at an easy 
canter. I rode steadily on. I knew — how could I fail 
to know ? — who it was. In five minutes we were close 
together, and as we passed I looked at her. We were 
quite close, and she smiled and nodded to me in a 
friendly way as we passed. The captain was at her 
side, but I never saw him. The one thing of which I 
was conscious was the smile that lit up her dark eyes 
and clothed her bright face with sunshine. I rode on 
without thinking of anything else. I was roused by 
Fireking. He stopped suddenly. The shock brought 
me back from dreamland, and I looked round me once 
more. What was this? The wind blew strongly in 
my face, and was as hot as ever, but now it brought 
with it more than heat. There was a curious smell in 
the air — a strange biting sensation in the touch of the 
wind. It was the smell of fire. The horse had recog- 
nized it and had stopped ; his instinct was far in ad- 


IN THE STORM 


193 


vance of my knowledge. It was not for nothing that 
he had his name. For the moment I felt bewildered. 
Of course I had heard of bush fires — they are the 
stock subjects for the yarns of old hands in the bush — 
but I had never seen one. What should I do ? The 
fire must be in the scrub before me, and it was into 
that scrub that the cattle had strayed. My first instinct 
was to go on. I followed my instinct: I tightened 
the rein and touched Fireking with the spur. For a 
moment he resisted. For a moment I thought he would 
refuse. But no ! The instinct of obedience was the 
leading instinct, after all. He snorted uneasily, tossed 
his head impatiently, and then broke into a hasty 
gallop. 

Where were the stockmen ? If I could but find 
them, I still thought, in my ignorance, we might do 
something. If I could not, even my inexperience warned 
me that I was only running into useless danger. I 
“ coo-eed” loudly as I went ; but no answer came back. 
The hot blast of wind hurled the sound in my face, 
and I was not surprised. It was growing serious. The 
gale was rising fast, and the blast was hotter and more 
scorching than ever. The smell of fire, too, grew pun- 
gent in my nostrils and painful to my eyes, and already 
the sky was becoming obscured by great eddying 
wreaths of smoke. I pulled up Fireking, and once 
more tried the effect of a “ coo-ee,” given with all the 
force of my lungs. I listened, but no answer came 
back, only a sort of distant moan, which might have 
been the wind, but seemed to my imagination to be 
the voice of the fire. I wheeled the horse reluctantly 
and rode back along the track by which I had come. 
I did nothing to rouse the horse, but he required no 
urging now. As I wheeled him he broke into a sharp 
i n 17 


194 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


canter. In a very few seconds he exchanged the canter 
for a gallop. He was afraid of the fire. He was afraid, 
and he was right. Suddenly a blast of wind struck 
my cheek, and it seemed to burn me. I glanced hastily 
over my shoulder, and I, too, grew alarmed. The at- 
mosphere behind me had undergone a change. There 
was smoke still — more, indeed, than ever, but now it 
rolled in huge black billows before the gale. And the 
smoke was not all black. Here and there it was lit up 
by a fierce lurid glow, and now and then out of the 
blackness there darted a deep crimson flash of fire. It 
was coming. 

Up to that moment I had no thought of danger. 
Even now the danger of which I thought was not my 
own. It was hard, indeed, to fancy danger that could 
reach me on a horse so powerful and swift as the one 
I rode. But now I shuddered. 

It was but a few minutes since I had met the captain 
and Miss Malcolm, and even now they might not under- 
stand their danger. At the thought I touched Fireking 
hastily with the spur and urged him to a quicker 
gallop. 

W e were mounting the slope at last, although to my 
excited fancy it seemed an age before we reached it. 
Only a very few minutes could have passed, and already 
matters had awfully changed for the worse. The hot 
blast of the desert was already charged with the fierce 
breath of the furnace. Already the afternoon sky was 
blotted out by a dense haze of smoke, and the wreaths 
of the same that curled and eddied before the gale, 
made everything dim and indistinct to the sight. 

I was growing keenly alive to the danger at last, and 
I urged Fireking up the slope as fast as it was prudent 
to go. As I went I peered anxiously in front of me 


IN THE STORM 


195 


and listened so eagerly for the sound of horses’ hoofs 
that the exertion became a positive pain. How far had 
she got on ahead? Would the horses keep the track 
in the bewildering smoke and haze around them? 
Would her own strength and the strength of her horse 
hold out long enough to secure safety? Question after 
question rose in my mind and pulsated wildly through 
my brain. And still I peered around me through the 
lurid shadows, and listened tremblingly for the dreaded 
sound of her flying hoofs. Suddenly I was conscious 
of a new sensation : it flashed through my brain in a 
moment, and in the same moment sent the hot blood 
coursing wildly through my veins. Till that instant 
Miss Malcolm had been to me a dream — almost an 
abstraction. Till then she had seemed to me an angel 
of goodness and pity, indeed, but much more of an 
angel than a woman. I had dreamed of her, rever- 
enced her, worshipped her at a distance ; but of ordi- 
nary human emotion there had been none that was 
conscious. In this one moment of deadly peril all this 
was changed. It was not for an angel that I felt this 
wild terror, but for a woman in danger. It was no 
longer for a being to be worshipped at a distance, but 
for a woman to be protected in her weakness, saved 
from danger, if need be, died for in the last extremity, 
a woman wildly if hopelessly loved, that I was in fear 
for at the moment. Self-revelation is always a sudden 
thing, and I knew all this in a moment. Life and 
death seemed now to hang for me on her safety. I 
galloped wildly forward. 

Behind me came the smoke and the flames borne on 
the wings of the gale, which now roared and howled 
among the giant gums, and bent the smaller trees like 
reeds in its path. And as it came it grew louder and 


196 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


louder. There was a hiss and a crackle and a yell be- 
hind me distinct from the voice of the wind in the 
trees, and a solemn roaring noise that swelled louder 
and louder like the diapason of a mighty organ. I 
could hardly see for the eddying smoke, but my horse 
either saw or by instinct followed the track. At last 
we had reached the top of the range. I knew it by 
Fireking’s stride rather than by sight, for seeing had 
become both vague and painful. Yet for the moment 
I half turned to look back. It was but for an instant, 
for the heat was more than I could bear. But the 
sight of that roaring phlegethon, that mighty rushing 
sea of flames, is with me still. Awful in its lurid 
beauty, more awful in what it concealed than in what 
it showed, it seemed to me as if I were already over- 
taken. Yast tongues of crimson flame, blurred and 
blotched with blackest wreaths of smoke, stretched 
themselves hungrily towards me. From tree-top to 
tree-top they leaped and sprang like fiery demons, hiss- 
ing, shrieking as they flew. And ever behind them 
came rolling the billows of the sea of fire and the voice 
of the tempest of flame. Wildly I struck the horse 
with the spur, and galloped on. 

Suddenly I heard a shout. I looked in the direction 
of the sound, and through the smoke I could just make 
out the shadow of a horse and a man behind him. The 
cry was wild and hoarse, yet it was barely audible 
amid the gathering sounds around and before me. I 
drew rein to the left as if by an instinct, and with a 
few wild bounds Fireking took me to the spot. It was 
they. 

Both were at the moment dismounted. Miss Mal- 
colm stood looking at her horse, which had fallen over 
a log and now lay still, as if badly injured. The cap- 


IN THE STORM 


197 


tain was at his horse’s head, and the horse was already 
wildly restive through terror. As I reached him I could 
see terror also in the man’s white face and in his wildly 
staring eyes. 

“ Help !” he shouted, as I came up. “ For God’s sake, 
help !” 

In an instant I had thrown myself from the saddle 
and was by his side. 

“ Hold my horse !” I shouted, “ and I will move Miss 
Malcolm’s saddle to yours. There is time yet. He 
will carry her clear.” 

The man shrank from me as if I had struck him. He 
glared at me and all the cruelty of fear was in his eyes. 

“And I?” he stammered. Then in a moment he 
recognized me, and even in his terror the base nature 
of the man asserted itself. 

“ Ha ! ha !” he laughed, wildly. “ Give Miss Malcolm 
your own horse! Yours! What right have you to 
him or to anything else ? Give him up, I say !” and he 
stretched out his hand and made a clutch at Fireking’s 
bridle. 

“ Coward !” I hissed the word at him through my 
clenched teeth. “ Coward, did you think I meant to 
leave your worthless carcass to the fire if my horse 
could carry us both ?” 

As I spoke the fire came on. With a hiss and a roar 
it sprang upon a huge old gum-tree that towered 
almost over our heads, and the blazing leaves and twigs 
fell around us in a fiery shower. His horse struggled 
wildly to get free, and, with a cry, “ I can never hold 
the brute!” he managed to scramble into the saddle 
once more. As he did so the horse sprang forward. 
Had he tried, I don’t know that he could have held the 
terrified animal, and I don’t know that he made the 
17 * 


198 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


attempt. As he went he looked back at me, shook his 
fist, and shouted, “Give your master’s daughter the 
horse, you scoundrel !” 

I turned to Miss Malcolm. Her face was very pale, 
and her lips moved, but she was calm even in that 
moment of dreadful peril. 

“ Come 1” I said, “ Miss Malcolm ; it is not quite too 
late yet.” 

She drew back. “Ho!” she said. “Ho! I will not 
throw away your life, too. I know you cannot save 
me ; save your own life !” 

“ Hever !” The word sprang from my lips with an 
energy so fierce that even in that terrible moment I 
thought she could hardly fail, being a woman, to under- 
stand it. “Hever! Miss Malcolm, trust me. Come 
with me — for God’s sake, come ! I will save you yet ; 
if not, I can die here.” 

She looked me straight in the face. What she read 
there I cannot tell, but I thought — it may only have 
been a fancy — that a faint flush relieved the paleness 
of her cheek at the moment. 

“ I trust you.” 

It was all she said, but she stretched out her hand. 
As woman to man she gave it to me ; as man from 
woman I accepted that sacred trust. 

In a moment I had remounted ; indeed, it all passed 
in the space of a very few seconds. I had stooped and 
grasped her hand. With quick perception she stepped 
upon the fallen tree that had proved fatal to her horse, 
and by a single motion I landed her on the saddle 
before me. 

To clasp her firmly with my arm, to loosen the rein, 
and to strike Fireking sharply with the spur was the 
work of an instant, and once more the gallant horse 


IN THE STORM 


199 


resumed the struggle for life. Thank God ! he was 
strong and fresh still. Seldom has a horse fought so 
stern a fight with the elements. Seldom have human 
beings escaped a peril so awful and so imminent. 

Through the lurid air and the driving wreaths and 
billows of smoke ; amidst the falling branches and the 
hail of fiery leaves, surrounded by the howl of the tem- 
pest and the hissing of the devouring flames — through 
all we struggled on. 

These were awful moments, but description becomes 
impossible. The raging confusion of sounds, the mad- 
dening sensation of heat and struggle, the bewildering 
and stifling smoke and flame on every side, leave but a 
general impression of weird and ghastly horror like the 
vision of pandemonium. Through it all I was clearly 
conscious of one thing alone, — I held her in my arms ! 
Her fainting head leaned on my breast. Her pale, beau- 
tiful face was close to mine. What mattered the storm 
and the danger; the flying flames, and the blinding 
smoke ? If we escaped, I should have saved her, if we 
perished, we should perish together. I bent over her 
unconscious form. I warded off the falling leaves and 
twigs that eddied round us, shrivelling and blazing, in 
a giddy dance of death. I clasped her more and more 
tightly to my breast ; with clenched teeth and blinded 
eyes I galloped wildly on. 

How it happened I do not know, and I never shall 
know, but suddenly I could see once more. By some 
heaven-sent instinct the horse must have changed his 
course and crossed the line of the fire. Suddenly, un- 
expectedly, incomprehensibly, we found ourselves out- 
side of it, the gale blowing strongly on our left side; and 
behind us, howling and hissing and roaring as before, 
the great river of fire swept past. 


200 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


I looked round for a moment bewildered and almost 
stupefied, then I looked down at the still unconscious 
face pillowed against my breast. Her hat was broken, 
her veil burned and torn to pieces. One soft curl had 
straggled across her pale cheek and brow. A great 
sob of thankfulness burst from my heart and gave me 
relief. “ Thank God !” I ejaculated. Then I stooped 
— reverently, tenderly, almost sadly — I stooped and 
kissed her brow. 

The danger was passed. The good horse had con- 
quered in the struggle. Fireking had once for all 
vindicated his name. We were safe. As soon as I 
could see anything clearly, I saw that the home station 
would escape. The gale was carrying the fire away 
to the westward, and it was so strong that only 
slowly and with difficulty could the flames manage to 
creep up against it in places through the dry brown 
grass. 

I turned Fireking’s head towards the house, and he 
dropped first into a canter and then into a walk. I 
was in no hurry to get home. I was in just as little 
hurry to see my beautiful burden recover consciousness. 
While the faint lasted I could clasp her to my breast. 
While she knew it not, I could still feast my eyes on 
her pale face and wildly dream that it was possible 
those closed eyes could open and give back an answer- 
ing look to mine. 

It could not last. The strong wind, hot although it 
still was, gradually revived her. She moved ; she 
opened her eyes ; she looked up. Surprise, wonder, 
and then returning recollection chased one another in 
quickly varying expressions over her face. Then a 
quick crimson blush spread over her cheek and brow as 
she hastily tried to raise herself. 


IN THE STORM 


201 


“ Thank God, Miss Malcolm,” — I almost whispered 
the words, — “ thank God, you are safe !” 

For a moment she said nothing, and her eyes half 
closed again. Then she looked up, and her eyes were 
full of strong feeling, which made them shine and 
glisten as I had never seen eyes shine before. 

“ Thank God 1” she repeated. “ Yes, and thank you, 
too. I trusted you, and you were more than worthy 
of my trust. Thank you for my life.” 

I looked at her, but tears that would come blinded 
my eyes. I tried to say something, but I felt that I 
should sob if I tried to speak. I looked away. 

“ Couldn’t I dismount now ?” she said, after a mo- 
ment’s pause. 

“ Certainly, Miss Malcolm,” I replied. “ If you are 
able to walk, perhaps it will be as well.” 

Her words had recalled me to myself again. The 
dream of the last few minutes was at an end already. 

Carefully I dismounted and helped her gently from 
the saddle. Then, leading Fireking, I accompanied 
her in silence. More than once I could see her glance 
secretly at me, and then turn away again. She had 
nothing to say. Good heavens ! What could she say 
to me ? The bitterness had come back again — the iron 
again entered my soul. I walked beside the woman I 
loved and worshipped, and I — I was a leper, a convict ! 
What could there be to say? 

We saw nobody. Every man on the station had, no 
doubt, gone to help in the effort to save the farm build- 
ings away to the right, and we approached the house 
unobserved. At last we reached the gate of the home 
paddock, but a few chains distant from the house. I 
opened it for her to pass through, and then I paused. She 
passed through, and then looked round at me inquiringly. 


202 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ Good-bye,” I said, in a voice which I knew was 
hoarse and broken. “ Good-bye, Miss Malcolm. God 
bless you !” 

The last words broke from me as if in spite of my- 
self. Even to my own ear they sounded like a cry of 
pain. She turned back hastily, and came towards me. 
Her face was troubled, her lips trembled, her large eyes 
filled with unshed tears. 

“ Oh !” she said, and her voice also was tremulous 
with feeling, “ you don’t think me ungrateful ? You 
don’t believe I can ever forget ?” 

She stretched out her right hand to me and I took it 
in mine. I struggled to speak, but no words would 
come. I bent down and kissed her hand. Wildly, 
hungrily, despairingly, I kissed it. Then I let it go. 

She turned hastily away. When I looked up again 
she was gone. 

I closed the gate slowly. I felt somehow as if I 
were shutting out hope. I also turned away. I went 
towards the huts. 


CHAPTER X Y 1 1. 


Why I went to the huts, I don’t know. It was 
weeks since I had taken a meal there, and I had not 
slept there since I began my new life with Joe. I have 
often asked myself why I went there on this particular 
day: I have never received from my own mind an an- 
swer. Is it strange ? Can we give reasons for most 
of the things we do which lead to important results ? 
Do not the hinges of life turn for the most part without 
noise ? 

The huts were entirely deserted. The summons of 
the fire had evidently reached them all, and the urgency 
of the danger had left no loiterers behind. Fireking 
followed me with his head drooping as if over-exertion 
had exhausted his energy. I glanced round me, and, 
seeing Tom the hut-keeper’s supply of water, I placed 
it before the horse and watched him as he drank it 
greedily. Then I left him standing and went into the 
hut. Its sordid appearance was no worse than usual, 
yet it somehow struck me more. With a feeling of 
sickening despondency I leaned against a bunk feeling 
rather than thinking of the vast gulf that yawned 
between Miss Malcolm and myself. Her face rose 
before me with its unmistakable air of refinement and 
high breeding. And this — this was my sphere. This 
was the place, and this the life, to which I was con- 
demned. And yet I knew, at least I believed, that my 
love could have thrown a bridge over many a gulf, such 
as might in the ordinary course of things have sep- 
arated us. I could have overcome poverty, conquered 

203 


204 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


position, name, and fame, by the mere force of my 
affection, and could have distanced many a competitor 
for her favor. But this 1 Not even the abyss across 
which the rich man’s hungry eyes were fixed on Laz- 
arus could surely have seemed more hopelessly impass- 
able than this. 

For a moment I broke down, and strong spasms of 
convulsive sobbing shook my body like an ague fit. 
Was it unmanly ? It may have been, but at least it was 
natural, and there are times when nature is a despot. 
I was suddenly brought back to myself, and it was a 
little thing that roused me. In my agony I leaned 
heavily against the rough bunk, and my ear caught 
the sharp metallic clink of something in the bed. It 
was nothing very extraordinary, and yet it startled me. 
There are times when the tension of the feelings seems 
to lend special vividness to the senses, and now I seemed 
to distinguish something suspicious in the sound I had 
heard. I turned to the bunk and examined it. It was 
the one occupied by Long Jim, I knew, and showed 
nothing on the top but a frowzy blanket and a heap of 
mingled straw and ferns that formed his rude substi- 
tute for a bed. Hastily I thrust the blanket aside and 
groped among the straw beneath. My hand touched 
something ; it was smooth and cold. I knew it at once 
for a gun-barrel. 

I paused to think. The men had got arms at last I 
How many I did not know ; but even in this one bed 
certainly more than one, from the sound I had heard 
— and almost certainly more elsewhere. They were 
armed. I knew what that meant. It was the begin- 
ning of the end. Three months ago the men waited 
only for weapons ; now they had got them. I leaned 
breathlessly against the bunk. A thousand thoughts 


IN THE STORM 


205 


hurried through my mind. A thousand half-forgotten 
feelings boiled up in my heart and surged hotly through 
my brain. The revenge for which I would have sold 
myself once was now offered me; the retribution I 
had invoked so fiercely was evidently impending. And 
now — now I was only stunned and bewildered. 

Slowly I recovered myself and left the hut. I seemed 
to require air and space fully to realize the discovery 
I had made and its possible consequences. Fireking 
stood where I had left him, and I once more hitched his 
bridle over my arm and walked slowly away. No one 
was in sight. The fire had passed on, and the dense 
clouds of smoke that still hung over the run to the west- 
ward marked the course of the destroyer. The fore- 
ground was scathed and blackened by its passage, but at 
least it had passed us by without very serious damage. 

I led the horse towards the farm buildings, and had 
got within a hundred yards of them when I heard 
shouts from beyond. I looked and saw several men run- 
ning towards me. I could scarcely recognize them, they 
were so grimed and blackened with smoke ; but as they 
came near I saw that Pinnock the overseer was one. 
As soon as he recognized me he beckoned wildly, and I 
mounted Fireking once more and rode on to where he 
stood waiting breathlessly. 

He looked pale and ghastly in spite of the smoke 
which went far to blacken his face, and as I came up 
he shouted, “ For God’s sake, Jenkins, ride over to the 
colonel; he’s almost distracted about Miss Malcolm.” 
As he spoke he pointed to the left, where I could see 
figures hurrying along the edge of the burnt ground 
towards the range. 

“All right,” I shouted, in reply, and roused Fireking 
once more into a canter. 


18 


206 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


As I came up the colonel turned to meet me. There 
was something terrible in the old man’s stern fixed 
face, in which fear and horror were struggling against 
the self-control of years. I had, as heaven knows, little 
enough cause to like or to pity this man. Yet I was 
conscious of a strange sensation of pity at my heart, 
and a stranger feeling of softening and interest as I 
looked at him. 

For a moment he gasped in the vain effort to speak ; 
then he regained control of his voice. 

“ My daughter, Jenkins, and the captain ! Have you 
seen anything of them ?” 

“ Your daughter is safe, sir ; and the captain should 
be ; but I don’t know anything about him.” 

He stared at me as if hardly comprehending for some 
seconds, th,en he exclaimed, — 

“Safe, did you say, Jenkins? Safe? How? The 
captain’s horse has come home, and he is scorched.” 
Then he stopped and looked at me eagerly and help- 
lessly. Looking in his face now, I saw the likeness to 
his daughter at last. 

“ Miss Malcolm is safe, sir. I saw her go up to the 
house not long ago. The captain must have been 
thrown. We had better look for him.” 

The shock and the anxiety must have unnerved him, 
for he followed my lead. I heard him mutter in a low 
tone, “God be thanked!” Then he turned his face 
again towards the range. So, without another word, 
side by side we went in search of the captain. 

We found him at last. He had almost escaped the 
danger which had filled him with such terror. He had 
cleared the bush successfully, and had even reached 
the foot of the range on this side, when, probably 
blinded and confused by the smoke and flames, his 


IN THE STOEM 


207 


horse had put his foot in a hole and then thrown him 
over his head. His arm was broken, but still he had 
tried to drag himself out of the way of the fire. He 
had been overtaken and terribly burned, however, 
before he got clear, and now he lay insensible upon 
the scorched and blackened soil — his face black and 
burnt — his clothing scorched and torn. His desertion 
had cost him dear. The men gathered round him, and 
even from some of them there were expressions of 
pity. For my part I felt like a stone. For this man 
I had no pity ; towards him I was hard and unfeeling 
still. 

Insensible as he was, they lifted him from the burnt 
earth, and carried him slowly towards the house. I felt 
neither sympathy nor anxiety for him, and I pretended 
none. I wheeled Fireking away and went back to the 
farm buildings. I dismissed the captain from my mind. 
His crime and its punishment seemed nearly balanced, 
so I thought no more about him. 1 returned once 
more to my discovery at the huts. As Fireking paced 
slowly back to the stable the question came vividly 
before me. It was not the question of the meaning 
of the presence of fire-arms, for of that I was not in 
doubt for an instant. It was not a doubt of the fate 
that threatened the colonel and his family. I remem- 
bered too well the fiercely whispered threats of men 
smarting with pain, and unfettered by one finer feeling 
of humanity to balance the suffering, to doubt what 
that was. The question was not what, but when. 
Imagination could and did fill in the details of the 
impending tragedy only too faithfully ; the time alone 
remained in doubt. 

Why had I heard nothing of it ? It was true I had 
not been living at the huts, but I often saw the hut- 


208 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


keeper, and not unfrequently others. Yet not a sylla- 
ble had reached me on the subject. For some reason 
it had been intentionally concealed, and the reason 
could only be that they did not care to trust me. Yet 
I felt that I must know, for Miss Malcolm’s sake. For 
the fate of the colonel I confess I felt but little anxiety, 
for that of the captain none at all. The bitter hatred 
and the wild desire for vengeance against the colonel, 
indeed, had grown dull and blunted, and the fierce sen- 
sations of mingled hatred and contempt I had felt for 
the captain had now become almost wholly contempt. 
Still I was conscious of no anxiety about them ; their 
life or death scarcely entered my mind at all. 

How would it affect Miss Malcolm ? That was the 
one thought which now filled my mind with an agony 
of apprehension. The old shock which months before 
had overcome me in the time of my lowest mental 
degradation at sight of her, when I knew her only for 
a woman, and thought of her only as defenceless and 
exposed to a horrible peril, came back upon me now 
with tenfold intensity. I must know. At any cost I 
must rescue her once more — this time from a danger 
more appalling than the flames. 

These, and a hundred other thoughts, and — shall I 
confess it? — in spite of everything, hopes, crowded 
upon my mind as I slowly walked Fireking back to 
the stables. It was almost dark by the time I had put 
him in and attended to him, and by that time my mind 
was fully made up. Through the gathering darkness 
I walked back to the huts. I noticed that the sky was 
heavily overcast. Far away to the northeast there was 
the pale gleam of lightning below the horizon, and I 
could just fancy I heard the low growl of distant 
thunder creeping along the ground. 


IN THE STORM 


209 


There was a light in our hut ; and as I came near 
I could hear voices in angry discussion. Through the 
open door I could make out Tom the hut-keeper moving 
about the fireplace getting supper, while the others 
were either lying in their bunks or seated on the blocks 
of wood that served as seats, smoking their pipes. 
The red glow from the blazing fire lit up the interior 
brightly, and threw out into wild relief the faces and 
figures of its inmates. It was the voice of Long Jim 
that caught my ear, saying, angrily, — 

“ Come, now, Tom, just stop your jaw, I tell ye, and 

look lively with that tucker. What the you 

wanted draggin’ you old carcass after the fire instead 
of mindin’ your own work, I don’t know. For anything 
you know some sneakin’ devil may have been here 
overhaulin’ the traps !” 

“ Oh, never you fret your inside about that, 

Long-’un. There ain’t nobody been round here ; and if 
there was, what do ye think he’d be the wiser ?” 

“ Well, I don’t know as it matters a heap now, if 

he did,” replied Jim, with a low growling sort of chuckle 
that was echoed from more than one quarter of the hut. 

The words, and still more the hideous laugh that 
followed them, sent a cold shudder down my spine, 
and involuntarily I held my breath, as I crept a little 
nearer in the darkness. There was a pause for a few 
seconds, broken only by the sharp crackling of some 
light wood which Tom had thrown on the fire. It was 
another voice that spoke next. 

“ It was lucky we got rid of that captain so easy. 

He won’t give any trouble now.” 

“ Not much,” said Jim ; “ but look here, mates, what’s 
come of the gal ? She went out with him over the 
range, they tell me.” 
o 


18 * 


210 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ She’s right, mate ! Not as it matters to her very 
much, p’raps.” 

“ How the devil do you know that, Bill ?” It was Jim 
that spoke, and I could hear him raise himself in his 
bunk in his anxiety for the answer. 

“ I heard the Gentleman tell the old man, mate. 
‘Your daughter’s safe,’ says he; ‘I saw her go up to 

the house.’ And with that the old Turk, says he, 

‘ God be thanked for that !’ ” and the speaker laughed 
a short laugh. 

“ Oh, that’s it, is it? Saw her, did he? Saved her, 
more likely! But it don’t signify, mates, so long as 
she’s there. If we’ve got to take to the bush, some of 
us’ll want a wife.” 

I had listened to it all, and I had been able to keep 
silence. It had taxed my powers to the utmost, how- 
ever. The words, the tones, the diabolical oaths, and 
the still more diabolical laughter, had almost maddened 
me. I grew hot as fire and cold as ice by turns. My 
limbs trembled, and great drops of perspiration gathered 
thickly on my brow, and yet I did not stir. Was it 
possible that I had ever sympathized with creatures 
like these? Was it conceivable that men like these 
counted me for a comrade, and perhaps looked to mo 
for assistance in their plans of devilish violence ? 

The conversation died away, and I could hear Tom 
putting out the tin plates and pannikins for the meal. 
Should I creep away and escape from the foul neigh- 
borhood? No, for as yet I knew nothing of their 
plans, not even the time when they meant to act. 
Without this knowledge all else might be useless. I 
crept slowly and cautiously away to some distance. 
Then I turned and walked back. I made as much 
noise as I could in doing so. I even whistled a few 


IN THE STORM 


211 


bars of an old operatic tune which curiously seemed to 
come to my lips at the moment. They heard me. The 
sound of voices in the hut ceased. Then a voice I 
recognized as Tom’s said, “ Speak of the devil ! D — d 
if here isn’t the Gentleman himself.” In another 
moment I stood in the doorway. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


I stooped and went in. I could feel that I was not 
welcome. The usual greeting, “Well, mate!” came 
from one or two, but it came from none of them 
heartily. I was not wanted, and they hardly cared to 
conceal it. Fortunately I was not surprised. I was 
able to act as if 1 didn’t see it. With a careless “ Good- 
evening, mates !” I looked round me for a seat. There 
was an unoccupied block in the corner, and I drew it 
forward and sat down. My companions looked at me, 
but they said nothing. Even Tom had suddenly grown 
quiet. Without a word he poured tea into a pannikin 
and handed it to me. He passed me a tin plate and 
pointed to the mutton. 

Then my companions began to talk again — to talk 
faster and louder than was quite natural, as if to make 
up for the silence. I could feel that they were nervous, 
and I knew that it was my presence that made them 
so. I was right then in my suspicion — they would not 
trust me. What was to be done ? Fortunately I had 
never talked much in their company, and I was not 
expected to talk much now. I ate my mutton and 
damper as well as I could, and drank my tea in silence, 
and as I did so a hundred wild schemes jostled one 
another in my brain. The rest talked on. I was con- 
scious of the fact, but scarcely conscious of what was 
being said. I was trying to think out some plan by 
which I could learn their intentions, but for the moment 
I seemed to have lost the power of thinking consecu- 
tively. I tried to fix my mind on the circumstances, 
212 


IN THE STORM 


213 


and to balance the chances, but my mind refused to 
obey me. It was my companions that relieved me of 
my difficulty at last. It was Long Jim himself who 
suggested the right course for me to pursue. I was 
still lingering over my supper and staring abstractedly 
into my half-empty pannikin, almost in despair of any 
idea, when he addressed me — 

“ I say, mate, you must have had a sharpish ride !” 

I looked up at him, only half understanding, and 
nodded. 

“ Damned if he ain’t three parts asleep, mates !” he 
continued, looking round at the others with a signifi- 
cant glance. 

The idea flashed upon me in an instant. It was the 
answer to my puzzle. It might — nay, it was sure to be 
— dangerous, but that was nothing. I must contrive 
to sleep in the hut, and I might learn everything — in 
any case I would learn something. 

“ I think it’s the weather, mate,” I replied slowly. 
“ It seems to me I can scarcely hold up my head.” 

“More like the smoke and fire got in your brain. 
I’ve heard it often does: them bloody firemen often 
get that way.” 

“ Well, mate, it might be that ; I can tell you it was 
both thick and hot. If it hadn’t been for Fireking I 
was finished.” 

“ Lucky job the stables weren’t burnt, then. I s’pose 
you’ve got him down there now ?” 

“ Yes, but he’s pretty near knocked up. What with 
the struggle to get off, and the scorching he got, he’s 
like me to-night— he can’t hold up his head.” 

“ Well, mate, if I was you I’d go and have a good 
sleep — nothing like a sleep, they say. You’ll be all 
right by mornin’.” 


214 


THE TRACK OP A STORM 


“ I think I will, mate. How’s my bunk here ? Any 
bed in it ?” 

“Ho. Leastways it’s musty enough, if there is. I 
wouldn’t try it if I was you. It’s not been used these 
two months.” 

As he spoke I glanced at him, and could see by his 
face he was really anxious to get me away. What 
was to be done ? Of course I had a right to stay if 
I liked, but if I seemed bent on it they would be sure 
to suspect. To be suspected might be death, but in 
any case it would mean failure. 

I got slowly on my feet and stretched myself. Then 
I stumbled across to my old bunk, and found there was 
hardly any bedding in it, and what there was was 
musty and old. It would require a good excuse for 
insisting on sleeping there. I knew the others were 
watching me, though they still talked among themselves. 
Slowly and reluctantly I turned towards the door. 

“Well,” I said, “I suppose I must tramp it, mates, 
if I don’t fall asleep on the road.” 

“Not you,” said Long Jim. “The fresh air’ll wake 
you all right, when you’re once outside.” 

I went to the door and opened it. It was not very 
light inside the hut ; but outside it was darkness itself. 

“Hallo!” I exclaimed. “It’s dark enough outside, 
anyhow.” 

It was, indeed. The night was not simply dark — it 
was black. The air was not only wanting in any gleam 
of light; there seemed to be something solid and opaque, 
something one could grasp with his hand, or push 
against like a wall of darkness. The other huts were 
but a few feet off, and there must have been lights in 
each, but neither of them was visible through the thick 
darkness. 


IN THE STORM 


215 


My exclamation brought both Tom and Jim to the 
door, and both peered out like myself into the dark. 
“Thunder,” observed Tom, in a matter-of-fact tone. 
“ Thunder, mates, and no mistake this time !” 

“ Thunder be d — d I” said Jim, emphatically. “ It’s 
only a bit dark, because our eyes are looking at the fire.” 

“ A lot you know about it, my bantam !” rejoined 
Tom. “Mayhap you know all about Australy, my 
pippin, in six months, and mayhap you don’t. Listen 
to that 1” And as he spoke there came a long, low, 
distant growl which crept up to us through the dark- 
ness, and then seemed to roll away under our feet. 

“It’s thunder, I tell ye, and plenty of it ! Not as it 
signifies much now,” he added, in a lower tone, that 
came on me like a revelation. 

“Well, mate,” said Jim, hastily, “if it’s going to 
thunder, you’d best be making tracks before it comes on.” 

“ Tracks ! but how can anybody find a track in this 
darkness ?” 

“ That’s true enough,” growled Tom, in an undertone. 

As he spoke he stepped outside into the darkness 
and tried to look around him. A great drop of rain 
as large as a half-penny struck him on the face with a 
kind of splash. He stepped back quickly. 

“ It’s going to rain at last, mate : you’ll have to stop.” 

I just caught the angry glance that Jim shot at the 
speaker from under his heavy brows, and then his face 
cleared. 

“Well,” he said, carelessly, “so much the worse for 
you, Gentleman. You’ve got no bed to lie on.” 

“ That’s a fact,” I replied, as reluctantly as I could j 
“ but anything’s better than wandering about in dark- 
ness and rain like that, if it’s a fair sample that hit 
Tom. Besides, I’m about dead beat now.” 


216 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


I turned from the door and went back to the bunk. 
It certainly was an uninviting bed, but I question if I 
ever viewed the best sleeping accommodation with so 
favorable an eye as I did that little heap of musty straw. 

“Well,” I said, slowly, “it’s not nice, but I must 
make it do !” 

Just as I was, I sat on the edge of the bunk to pull 
off my boots. I threw them into the bunk and myself 
after them. 

“ Good-night, mates ! I don’t much think the thunder 
will wake me.” 

My bunk was in the corner furthest from the fire, 
where I could best see without being seen, and I kept 
my eye on my companions. They looked at one another, 
and though the expression of their faces varied, annoy- 
ance was common to them all. I had made good my 
quarters in the hut for the night, and I had made them 
good against their will. Assisted by the storm, I had 
in some way disarranged their plans. So much as this 
could be seen at a glance. What would come of it 
remained to be seen, and was doubtful enough still. 
Thinking it over as I lay, I was fully conscious of my 
danger, but I could also see that the chances were in 
my favor. If they knew my object in being there, my 
life, I knew, would be sacrificed, but of course they did 
not know it. They did not trust me, but at present 
that was all. Three months ago — I shuddered at the 
thought — I would have joined such a plot, and they 
knew it. Three months sooner I would have sought 
revenge at the risk of blood on my hands and worse 
than blood on my soul. The feelings of these men 
were now what mine had been then, except that in 
their case there was nothing to restrain them from the 
worst, — no instincts of the gentleman still surviving in 


IN THE STOKM 


217 


the convict ; no memories of another life fighting still, 
however feebly, against the degradation of this. 

I closed my eyes, but between my nearly shut lids I 
watched them still. For a time they continued to talk 
as before. The same coarse jokes and coarser stories 
I had heard so often were repeated and laughed at 
with more or less heartiness. Yet from time to time I 
could perceive sharp glances cast into my corner as if 
to see whether I was still awake. Gradually— very 
gradually — for I knew these men were too suspicious 
to be easily deceived, I gave signs of being asleep. At 
first they produced no change, but gradually they had 
an effect. The jokes and stories were exchanged for 
more interesting subjects; the heads of the speakers 
drew more closely together, and they talked, cautiously 
indeed, but plainly, of their plans. 

Fortunately my ears were good. Already a few great 
drops of rain had begun to fall on the roof, and the 
noise made it more difficult to catch what was said. 
Good as my ears had always been, they were never so 
acute as now, and I was able to gather the substance 
of all that was said. 

The plan was simple, and terrible in its simplicity. 
The hands at Turner’s were engaged in the plot also, 
and through them the fire-arms had been got. It was 
understood on both runs that the masters had no sus- 
picion of their danger, and with twelve guns between 
the two parties they were certain of success. Turner 
and his overseer were to be the first victims, and then 
the hands were to come on to us. The plan of attack 
on the house was necessarily vague, as not one of the 
party had ever been near it ; but they evidently thought 
that it mattered little. They had only to go up and 
shoot the colonel and his nephew, and all would go 
k 19 


218 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


well. It seemed only too likely ! Thinking of it, as I 
lay, I could see no difficulty. Looking at it on every 
side, I could see no chance of escape but in flight. It 
was to be that night. This had been fixed long before 
the bush fire, and as it had not gone near Turner’s 
place there was nothing in it to alter the arrangement. 
The heavy drops fell fitfully on the roof, but apparently 
more and more heavy. Minute by minute the long 
rolling peals of thunder came closer till the earth shook 
and trembled at each long report. 

Still the conference lasted. Still the heads of the 
conspirators were bent closely together. The single 
candle had long since run and guttered away on the 
end of the table and gone out. Only by the gleams 
of the firelight, sometimes bright and then again dull, 
could I make out the figures of the men as they sat 
and whispered. Now and then a sharp glare of light- 
ning, distant but yet bright, showed for an instant in the 
hut and cast a ghastly gleam over all. At last Long 
Jim rose with an oath. 

“ What time is it, old Tom, by your chronometer ?” 
he asked, with a half laugh. “ Strikes me it’s nearly 
time.” 

“ What, twelve o’clock ? Not by chalks, my hearty!” 

“ Come, come, Tom ! Your watch is slow, old man. 
What do you think, mates ? Ain’t it about time we 
started?” 

There was a murmur of voices in discussion, but the 
natural impatience of men engaged in such an under- 
taking prevailed, and Long Jim’s opinion was adopted. 

“Anyhow, mates, I ain’t agoin’ to sit for a couple of 
hours in the rain to please any bloke’s fancies. I’m on 
for the job, not for settin’ round on the fence in a thun- 
der-storm.” 


IN THE STORM 


219 


11 Who asked ye, old man ?” said Jim, anxious, appar- 
ently, to maintain good feeling. “Everybody knows 
sugar’ll melt in the rain, so ’tis n’t safe for you.” 

“ Besides,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “ be- 
sides, it will be just as well somebody gives an eye to 
* my Gentleman’ here, to see be don’t wake too soon. I 
suppose he’s asleep now.” He rose hastily and looked 
suspiciously over to my corner. 

“ Oh, he’s fast enough these two hours,” observed 
Tom, apparently restored to good temper by Jim’s good- 
natured chaff. 

“ Looked like it, didn’t he, mate, afore he lay down ?” 
said another of the party. 

Jim, however, came over to the side of my bunk. 
He couldn’t really see anything by the fitful gleams 
from the fire, but he had no real suspicion and was 
easily satisfied. He only glanced at me and then 
turned away again. 

“Well, Tom, keep your eye on him, anyhow. Don’t 
ever trust one of them bloody gentlemen, I say. Sell 
you like bullocks, they will, first chance they gets.” 

Tom nodded sulkily, as he replied, “ Suspect too 
much is as bad as suspect none, I tell ye, Jim. But all 
the same, I’ll keep an eye to him.” 

“ Do ye. And if he wakes too soon, why, least said, 
soonest mended, Tom. You’ve got a knife, and, by all 
accounts, you know as well as most how to use it.” 

Once more Tom nodded. This time his face relaxed. 
The best of us are open to flattery, and the implied 
compliment pleased him. 

“ All right, mate,” he said. “ You leave him to me.” 

The men rose cautiously from their seats. Then 
they rummaged in various bunks and produced six 
guns. They were of various sorts. There were three 


220 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ Brown Besses,” one older flint-lock, and two cavalry 
carbines, as nearly as I could make out in the uncer- 
tain light, and from the position in which I lay. One 
was put aside for Tom, and the others each took one. 
Then the ammunition was served out by Jim. Each 
man got his share in a flask, and each concealed it 
somewhere about his clothes. 

“All ready, mates?” asked Jim. 

“ Aye, aye, mate I” 

“ Come along, then.” 

Jim opened the door, and the fitful firelight from 
within vainly tried to penetrate the dense darkness 
outside. 

For a moment he stood in the door- way, then with- 
out a word he glided out into the night. One by one 
the others followed him. The darkness swallowed 
them up. 

Tom shut the door behind them and sat down. 


CHAPTEK XIX. 


The heavy rain-drops had ceased to fall, and I heard, 
or seemed to myself to hear, the footsteps for some 
time as they gradually died away in the hushed and 
unnatural stillness of the night. Long after they were 
gone fancy still conjured up their echoes, and kept my 
nerves at the highest tension. Even when they had 
wholly ceased, fancy still conjured up reasons why they 
should return, and so render any movement of mine a 
disastrous failure. There was not a sound, however, 
except the soft dropping of the wood ashes in the chim- 
ney, or an occasional movement of old Tom, as he sat 
sullenly smoking by the fire. There was not much light, 
but what there was served to throw out his figure and 
face into high relief. It was a rugged face, seamed 
and worn with deep furrows of care and villany — a bad 
face, stern, hard, and obstinate. I looked at him now 
more narrowly than I had ever done before. We called 
him old, but he was still in the prime of life, not old 
enough to have lost any of the sturdy strength which 
showed in the broad chest and the great muscles of his 
arms and shoulders as he sat carelessly puffing slowly 
at his pipe. 

How should I deal with this man ? The butcher’s 
knife, which, as cook, he carried in a sheath at his side, 
gave him a formidable advantage in a struggle, and 
one which his face as well as his "words told me he 
would not hesitate to use. Easy as his attitude now 
was, I knew I should have little chance of taking him 
by surprise, and a struggle might at once bring him 
19 * 221 


222 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


help from an adjoining hut. Yet every moment was 
precious. It might be later than Tom had thought, 
and already the band from Turner’s might be at hand. 
The thought caused a cold shudder to run through my 
limbs, and I moved involuntarily. The bunk creaked 
under my weight as I did so. The accident precipi- 
tated matters. At the sound Tom started and turned 
towards me at once. Then he rose, and after some 
search found a piece of candle and lighted it, never 
taking his eyes for more than an instant at a time off 
my corner of the hut as he did so. Then he laid his 
hand on the handle of his knife and half drew it from 
the sheath as he came towards me with stealthy foot- 
steps. Involuntarily I closed my eyes and waited, see- 
ing him dimly through the eyelashes as he came near 
me. I felt that he stood over me, though I dared no 
longer look. I was conscious of his hot breath on my 
face as he stooped close to examine me with the candle, 
and I had just presence of mind enough left to enable 
me to mutter something between my teeth. I did not 
think, and it was not by design I used it, but the name 
that sprung to my lips was “ George !” I nearly started 
at the sound myself, but it was more than fortunate, it 
was providential. I felt Tom draw himself cautiously 
back. I could feel rather than hear that he drew a 
long breath. Then he muttered, “ Poor devil ! he’s 
sound enough. I wonder who George is, — he always 
dreams about him.” 

Once more I ventured to look through my eyelashes. 
I watched his movements. He turned slowly away ; 
slowly his hand was withdrawn from the knife. He 
was satisfied. 

There was no calculation in it ; it was purely a mat- 
ter of impulse. As he turned from me my muscles 


IN THE STOEM 


223 


seemed to grow suddenly rigid, as though a fire ran 
through them. As he left me I knew that the moment 
for action had come. It was but a single motion, and I 
have not an idea how it was accomplished. In any less 
excited condition of nerve and muscle, it would have 
been impossible. By one silent movement I gathered 
myself together in the bunk. By a second I stood in 
the shadow behind him. With a start he turned, and 
the candle he held dropped to the floor and was extin- 
guished. At the same moment I threw myself upon 
him. 

As I had foreseen, he was no weak antagonist. Many 
a scene of danger and crime had made it no easy mat- 
ter to surprise him, and I felt as I grappled breast to 
breast that I should need all my activity and strength 
to give me the advantage. With all his force he threw 
me off and made a clutch at the knife, uttering only 
one half- muttered oath of deadly import. His sudden 
effort had for the moment freed him sufficiently to 
enable him to grasp the knife, and I could see it gleam 
in the red glow of the fire-light as I gripped his wrist 
with a desperate strength which I felt to be like iron. 
By a sudden effort I twisted his arm across his throat, 
making him turn half round as I forced him backward 
by an irresistible pressure. He was left-handed, and 
as he slowly gave way he presented his brawny neck 
with its swelling veins and muscles. By another im- 
pulse, and without thought of consequences, I struck 
with my fist below the ear. I felt the man collapse as 
I did so, and with a stagger Tom fell like a log, with 
his head towards the fire, and the hand in which he 
held the knife still under him. 

For a moment I stood looking at him and panting 
with the fierce exertion. Then I listened for some 


224 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


sound of alarm from the neighboring hut, but all was 
silent. I went back to the bunk ; I hastily put on my 
boots and cap. Then I returned and looked at Tom. 
He lay unconscious, but breathing heavily. I stepped 
across him as he lay and opened the door. It seemed 
darker than ever and the stillness was deadly. I 
paused for an instant to judge of the direction of the 
house. Then I closed the door silently. The last I 
saw of the hut was the red gleam of the dull chimney 
log glistening on the blade of the knife still clutched in 
Tom’s nerveless hand. I closed the door. I plunged 
into the darkness of the night. 

The distance was not very great ; it was the darkness 
alone that made it formidable. Three times I missed 
my way, and discovered by coming either to a fence or 
the bank of the creek that I was wrong. The last time 
I almost despaired of finding it. Time was flying. To 
my excited fancy it seemed to be hours since I had 
started, and yet I seemed unable to find my way. In 
my excitement I began to run vaguely, wildly, and 
recklessly, and all the time I seemed to distinguish the 
footsteps of men in the darkness, and the muffled sounds 
of oaths and blasphemy behind me. I struck against 
a fence and stopped to take breath. I strained my 
eyes in the vain hope of seeing something in the dark- 
ness. I strained my ears in the equally vain attempt 
to hear. 

It came without a warning. There was a dazzling 
blaze of blue fire which quivered and ran in long 
jagged streamers of lurid light, illuminating every- 
thing for an instant with a ghastly brilliance. It was 
followed instantly by a crash of thunder which seemed 
to tear the heavens to pieces, and to roll along the 
ground like an earthquake. I hardly noticed the thun- 


IN THE STORM 


225 


der, for the lightning had shown me where I was. I 
stood within a few feet of the spot where I had last 
seen Miss Malcolm, and the house was not a hundred 
yards away. 

To reach the gate, to run up the slope, to climb the 
garden fence was the work of a couple of minutes, and 
then I could faintly make out a light that twinkled 
dimly through the darkness. I made straight for the 
light, and in another instant I stood within a yard or 
two of a low window opening upon the garden, the 
lower part of which was thrown up, apparently to 
catch a breath of air. I paused and looked. The col- 
onel was there, and he was alone. He sat at the table, 
his head leaning on one hand, looking at a letter that 
lay open before him. I could see that his face was fur- 
rowed and anxious-looking. Beside him on the table 
lay two pistols, evidently taken from the table drawer, 
which was still open. 

“ Sir,” I exclaimed, in a low voice. In an instant he 
stood erect, facing the open window with one of the 
pistols presented. 

“ Who are you?” he demanded, sternly. “Advance 
another step and I shall fire.” 

“One of the hands, sir, — Jenkins. I have come 

to ” I answered, stepping as I spoke into the light 

from the window. 

I was speaking when he pulled the trigger. I heard 
the report, and at the same moment I felt a sharp pain 
through my shoulder. With a single bound I sprang 
through the open window and grasped him by the arm 
before he could lay down the pistol that he held. 

“ Man I” I exclaimed, “ are you mad ? That shot 
may have proved the death-knell of all you hold 
dearest !” 

P 


226 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


He stared at me bewildered for a moment, and before 
he could speak the door was hastily opened, and Miss 
Malcolm ran into the room looking much alarmed, 
while I could see the frightened face of a servant look- 
ing anxiously through the open doorway. 

“ What is it, papa ?” she exclaimed. Then, seeing me, 
she stopped, and the color rushed to her cheeks and 
brow. I stepped forward. 

“Nothing to alarm you, Miss Malcolm,” I said, as 
quietly as I could. “ The pistol was discharged by an 
unfortunate accident, but luckily no harm has been 
done.” 

She looked at her father and then at me, and sud- 
denly she grew pale. 

“ But you are hurt !” she exclaimed, “ you are bleed- 
ing ! Oh, papa, you have shot him, and only to day he 
saved my life !” 

I glanced at my arm, and for the first time noticed 
that the blood was dropping from my elbow to the 
floor. 

“ Oh, that is nothing, Miss Malcolm ; a mere scratch, 
not worth mentioning at a moment like this. But, sir,” 
— and I turned to the colonel, who stared at me with 
a strangely bewildered expression which 1 couldn’t 
understand. “ But, sir, every moment is worth a life- 
time now. Your life and more than that is at this 
moment in danger, in deadly peril. For God’s sake 
rouse yourself and think what is to be done. In an 
hour, it may be in less, the hands will be here. You 
know ” here I lowered my voice almost to a whis- 

per, “ you know, sir, what that means.” 

He seemed suddenly to awake. He grasped me by 
the arm in his turn, and looked eagerly and incredu- 
lously in my face. 


IN THE STORM 


227 


“ And you !” he said, “ and you have come to warn 
me, to save me ? My God ! Can it be possible ?” 

Miss Malcolm had stood looking first at one and then 
the other as we spoke. Now she came up to her father 
and, laying her hand on his arm, said, in a tone I shall 
never forget, — 

“ Trust him, papa ! Whatever wrong you have done 
him in the past, trust him now. If we can be saved, 
he will do it.” 

She didn’t look at me ; she didn’t speak to me. I 
was glad she did not. I don’t know that I could have 
borne it if she had. Her simple faith in human nature 
overcame me. The colonel looked at me and shud- 
dered. 

“You don’t know what you say,” he muttered. 
“No ! It can’t be possible. Oh, God, it can’t be pos- 
sible !” 

I looked the colonel in the face, and seemed to know 
by a sort of instinct what was passing through his 
mind. Then I spoke : 

“It is possible, Colonel Malcolm. I don’t say for 
your sake, but for your daughter’s sake, it is possible. 
You know why I should hate, and why I have hated 
you almost to the death. Now you know why I have 
forgiven you. You may trust me !” 

He gazed in my face and I into his for a moment, and 
then by an effort he recovered himself. “ Tell me,” he 
said, “ how matters stand.” 

“ The hands,” I replied, “ have got arms. They have 
‘gone to meet the hands from Turner’s Run, then they 
will come here.” 

The colonel turned to the clock that stood above the 
fireplace ; its hands pointed to half-past ten. 

“ How soon do you think they will be here ?” 


228 THE TRACK OF A STORM 

“ Not before twelve o’clock ; most likely, later, as the 
night is so dark.” 

He looked at me for a moment. The presence of 
danger had restored the old soldier to himself. The 
stern, alert look, which the habit of command in mo- 
ments of danger gives, was once more the look in his 
eyes as he looked at me. 

“ Do you know Curtis’s ?” he asked. 

“ Yes ; I have been there twice within the last 
month.” 

“ Could you find your way there to-night ?” 

“ I don’t know. I could try.” 

“ It is the only chance. A detachment of the 
mounted force will be there to-night. I have a letter 
to say so. If you could bring them in time, we are 
saved. If not — but you know what that means. Can 
you do it, and will you ?” 

“ But,” I said, eagerly, “ but could you not escape ?” 

“ No. Captain Malcolm is here, wounded and help- 
less. We could not possibly take him with us ; we cer- 
tainly shall not desert him.” 

I felt that he was right. Desperate as the risk was, 
I felt that it must be run. Contemptible as I knew 
the captain to be, I knew that he could not be deserted. 
Oh, that he had not escaped that afternoon ! 

“ I will do it, colonel.” 

He looked at me steadily for a moment; then he 
stepped forward and held out his hand. 

“ If you should fail, don’t come back ; you will only 
lose your own life.” 

“ I shall not fail, colonel, and I will come back.” 

“Succeed or fail, you have my thanks, Jenkins,” he 
said. “ You are a brave man, and you deserve to suc- 
ceed.” 


IN THE STORM 


229 


I grasped the old man’s hand which he held out 
to me. I glanced for an instant at his daughter’s 
face, pale and yet calm. Then I turned and left the 
room as I had come in. I plunged again into the 
night. 


CHAPTER XX.\ 


The grasp of the old man’s hand clung to me still. 
I certainly had no love for him, and nothing for which 
to thank him before. I felt as if I had now. For the 
sake of his daughter I could have forgiven him all, and 
unconsciously my bitter resentment had been ebbing 
away from me ever since I knew that she was his 
daughter. But it was for that hand-grasp I felt grate- 
ful. It was because he had at last looked me in the 
face as man looks in the face of his brother man in 
moments of peril. It was because by that one grip he 
seemed to me to have received me back again into the 
old fellowship of my kind. 

As I ran down the garden path, vaulted over the 
fence, and made my way in the direction in which I 
believed the farm buildings lay, my heart beat high 
with the sense of self-respect restored. My blood 
coursed proudly through my veins once more like the 
blood of a freeman and a gentleman. 

No task seems impossible in such a moment of ela- 
tion. The world seems to lie at one’s feet, and difficul- 
ties shrink to insignificance before the new-born energy 
of the soul. So, at least, it seemed to me. I could see 
where I was going now no better than before, yet by 
some instinct 1 went straight on my course without 
doubt or hesitation. Only a few minutes were con- 
sumed in reaching the stable. In the darkness I found 
the door. I found and saddled Fireking, and led him 
out. As I did so the blaze of the lightning and the 
mighty rolling crash of the thunder came again daz- 
230 


IN THE STORM 


231 


zling and almost stunning me for the moment. By 
that wild light I could see the house on the hill for a 
moment, and even the huts with the dark background 
of bush, and then all was darker than before. 

I mounted Fireking, and, to my delight, 1 found that 
he had recovered his elastic motion. I turned his head 
to the right in a direction which I calculated would 
take me clear of the huts. I shook the rein and spoke 
to him as he broke into a quick canter, and brushed 
through the crisp dry grass which had that day es- 
caped the fire. 

It was a wild ride. I trusted almost wholly to my 
horse. From time to time, indeed, the whole heavens 
were lighted up for a second or two like a vast dome 
of ebony, glittering and flashing with a thousand 
streams of livid light, and then for a moment I guessed 
where we were, and tried to correct my course. On, 
on, we hurried, through the dense darkness and the 
blinding light. Deafened, almost staggered by the 
sudden crash of the thunder, and beaten and pelted by 
the huge raindrops that began to fall in sheets from 
the black clouds, — still we struggled on. It was for 
life or death. It was that and it was something more. 
I didn’t think. I didn’t dare to think. My senses were 
strained to their highest point of tension in the mere 
effort to proceed. If we should fail, if the horse should 
fall, if even we should miss the way, what then ? I 
drove back the thought. I threw all my energy into 
the effort to see and to hear. 

Surely the darkness had grown less black. There was 
a faint glow and then a stronger light, then a bright 
glare away to the left which I could not account for. 
Almost instinctively I drew rein to the left to see. 
Suddenly, through the blinding confusion of the rain it 


232 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


burst upon me. Turner’s place was on fire. The great 
red flames were shooting up into the black sky with a 
crackle and a roar which even the splash of the falling 
water could not do more than deaden. I pulled up the 
horse. I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked at 
the scene. There was where I had suffered the crown- 
ing degradation of my life ; there was the veranda on 
which we had stood. The long tongues of flame were 
curling about its eaves and shrivelling the climbing 
plants that had covered it. There was the wood-house 
where I had shed tears of blood in my agony. The 
flames had burst through the roof and tossed and 
waved in the darkness like a blood- red flag. I looked, 
but I could see no one. Not a living soul was visible 
near the fire, not a human voice mingled with the roar 
of the flames. 

The plot, so far as Turner’s was concerned, had suc- 
ceeded. The retribution had not failed to light on his 
head, at all events. Would it be so also with Colonel 
Malcolm ? I wheeled Fireking to the right ; I roused 
the good horse by a touch of the spur, and headed for 
Curtis’s run. 

It was a strange, fierce struggle with the elements. 
In the afternoon we had fought the fire ; to-night we 
battled with the rain. It was not like rain, indeed. In 
solid sheets it poured on the long parched and sun- 
baked earth, with a heavy splash and a sharp rebound. 
To hear it, one would have supposed it to be hail ; to 
feel it one might have fancied it almost anything rather 
than rain. Fortunately, it was on one side, or we could 
not have faced it. As it was, we often staggered and 
nearly lost our balance. Fortunately, we never did so 
altogether. 

How long I had been riding I could not guess, for 


IN THE STORM 


233 


my faculties had grown confused in the mere effort to 
concentrate them on the attempt to push on, when sud- 
denly I heard a shout. It was close at hand, although 
in the rain it sounded dull and distant. I pulled the 
rein and rode towards the voice. In one minute I was 
up with the party. 

“ Who goes there ?” 

The voice was stern and peremptory, with the tone 
of military command. My heart gave a leap and stood 
still. Had I accomplished my task, after all ? If so, 
would it be in time? “A messenger from Colonel 
Malcolm,” I replied. 

As I spoke I was among them. I could make out 
the erect forms of the troopers on their horses, and 
the figure of the officer who had hailed me in front. 

“ What is the message ?” 

“Hurry on, for God’s sake, or you will be too late. 
The hands have mutinied. They have fire-arms. 
Turner’s was burning as I passed, and ours would be 
next.” I gasped it out in short broken sentences. 

“ Can you manage to light that lantern, Curtis?” said 
the officer. “ Let’s see this man before we go on.” 

A minute or two was lost in getting a light, while I 
waited in an agony of impatience. At last they man- 
aged it, and I could see the face of the officer. It was 
stern and white, but it had the look of determination 
that was wanted. 

He held up the lantern to my face, then passed it 
down, examining my dress and horse. 

“Ha,” he said, “one of the hands! What’s your 
name, my man ?” 

“Jenkins,” I replied. “But for God’s sake don’t 
delay. Life and death and more than that hang on 
your exertions.” 


20 * 


234 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“Jenkins,” he exclaimed. “Jenkins! Well, that is 
strange. But what do you mean by more than life 
and death hanging on us ?” 

“ Oh, man, man,” I almost shouted, “ don’t you see 
what it means? Men can die, but there are women, 
too — Miss Malcolm and others. For God’s sake, has- 
ten.” 

“ Miss Malcolm,” he replied. “ Ah, that’s true. He 
is right, men. We can but do our best ; but that at 
least we must do. Is it any use going to Turner’s 
now ?” 

“Hone, sir, none. As I passed it was a mass of 
flames and not a living soul could be seen.” 

“ Well, then, forward, men ! Curtis, you know the 
shortest way ; lead on as fast as you can. You keep 
by me,” he added. I wheeled Fireking. I was on my 
way back. 

We did our best, but the progress of the party was 
slow — to me it was maddening in its slowness. Even 
Fireking, great as his exertions had been already, 
seemed to share my feelings, and I could feel that if 
released he would soon outstrip the troopers. 

At last I begged to be allowed to go on and let the 
colonel know that help was coming; and after a 
moment’s hesitation the officer said yes. 

In an instant I had loosed the rein and touched 
Fireking with the spur. The noble animal sprang for- 
ward into the darkness. I didn’t try to guide him now. 
I knew he would find his way home by the shortest 
track. On, through the blinding rain, lit up at times 
by the yet more blinding lightning, and re-echoing the 
rolling volleys of thunder. The water splashed high 
about us as we dashed forward ; the ground was soaked 
and slippery under foot. We never paused. We never 


IN THE STORM 


235 


drew rein ; we never slackened our speed from the 
long stretching gallop into which Fireking had dropped 
almost at once when we left the party. 

Suddenly the reports of guns to the right struck 
upon my ear. It must be the house at last, and it 
must be besieged. Once more I wheeled Fireking and 
galloped on. 

At last he stopped. I thought I could make out a 
gleaming light before me and on higher ground. I 
could hear voices and the reports of guns and pistols 
close at hand. I threw myself from the horse, and in 
the darkness I made for the fence. I found it and crept 
through. Then I reached the garden fence and climbed 
over it. I paused to think. Caution was wanted now 
more than dash. I crept up towards the house through 
the shrubs and bushes. Then I stood for a moment to 
reconnoitre. It was well I did so. Just then a flash 
of lightning blazed out overhead and I saw within six 
feet of me a man as if on guard, with a carbine in his 
hand. It was but for an instant that I saw him, but 
it was enough. One spring and my hand was on his 
throat, while my other grasped the weapon he held. 
He tried to call out, but my fierce grip choked the 
attempt. He grappled with me, but in strength he 
would have been no match for me at any time, and 
now I seemed to have the strength of ten men in my 
muscles. In half a minute the struggle was over. In 
a minute I had wrenched the carbine from him with 
one hand and had choked him into unconsciousness 
with the other. Then I hurled him heavily to the 
ground and sprang on. I was close to the house and 
to the window by which I bad already entered on that 
eventful night. The attack seemed to have been made 
at the back of the house and an entrance had evidently 


236 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


been forced there, for the shouts and cries which I could 
now hear distinctly came from within. 

I knew nothing of the house and could form but a 
vague idea of where the rooms lay ; but, dulled as they 
were by the noise of the rain and muffled by being 
fired inside the house, I still made out that they were 
close at hand. I was now beside the window where I 
had seen the colonel. My hand rested on the outside 
shutter, roughly but strongly made in the Venetian 
form, which protected it. Could it be possible once 
more to reach them by the same road ? At the thought 
I grasped the shutter, and felt it shake under the 
pressure of my hand. It was evidently fastened only 
in one place and probably by a very simple catch. Yet 
I hesitated. Once before I had nearly fallen a victim 
to my haste at this very spot, and the recollection, with 
the dull sensation of pain in my arm, warned me to be 
cautious. I bent forward and listened. Timber carries 
sound well, and with my ear pressed to the shutter I 
could hear what was going on inside. There was a 
sound of blows struck on wood and then a pistol shot, 
followed instantly by several shots from guns. The 
sounds were close at hand, — if not in this room, cer- 
tainly in the next ; yet still I hesitated. 

There came another discharge, and then a cry — it 
was a woman’s voice — and then a groan. I hesitated 
no longer. Sheltering the carbine as best I could from 
the rain, I grasped the shutter with both hands and 
setting my knee to the wall I wrenched it from its 
fastenings, and nearly fell backward as it swung sud- 
denly open in my hand. 

Instantly there came another scream from within, 
and I could see that it came from a young woman who 
sat on the floor swaying herself backwards and for- 


IN THE STORM 


237 


wards, as if either in pain or extreme terror. There 
was not a moment to be lost, as I well knew. As 
another volley was poured into the adjoining room I 
burst in a pane of the window just as the colonel 
sprang through the door, a pistol in one hand and a 
naked sword in the other, as if prepared to repel this 
new attack. 

“ For God’s sake, don’t fire colonel,” I shouted. 
“Open the window. It was the only way to reach 
you.” 

“Jenkins,” he exclaimed, “is it you?” 

“ Yes ; unlock the window before they come.” 

Without another word he sprang forward and un- 
fastened the bolt ; then he went back to the fight in 
the other room. His white hair seemed to float behind 
him as he went. His face was blackened with smoke, 
his dress was wild and disordered, but the fire of battle 
was in the old man’s look, and I thought he had never 
looked half so much a man as he did then. 

I pushed up the window and vaulted into the room, 
the carbine in my hand. It was not too soon. As I 
did so a bullet struck and broke the window just over 
my head. As I dragged the shutter to after me, I felt 
a hand upon it from the outside also. Its force yielded 
to my own, and the shutter closed ; but there was no 
longer a fastening to secure my advantage. I looked 
round me, but I could see nothing which I could use 
for the purpose. I stepped back, and let the shutter 
go. As I did so it was torn open, and in an instant a 
head and shoulders which I knew for those of Tom the 
hut-keeper were through the still open window. 

I did not hesitate now. In the face before me there 
was no hesitation. In the eyes before me there was 
little that was human, nothing that was merciful. In 


238 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


an instant I raised the heavy carbine and struck. The 
butt, heavily bound with brass, met him full on the 
brow, and he disappeared : without a word or a cry he 
fell back, and the window was free. I dragged the 
shutter to once more. I shut the window down and 
bolted it. Then I looked round me. There were a 
couple of mattresses on the floor, and upon these, 
groaning in agony, lay Captain Malcolm. 

In an instant I was at his side. I bent over to speak 
to him. He looked at me, and he knew me, for he 
scowled upward in my face. 

“You have two mattresses here, captain. Let me 
barricade the window with one of them : it may save 
your life,” I exclaimed. He stared at me fiercely for a 
moment, and again the cruel look came into his eyes 
which I had seen there before. 

“ Ho,” he said. “ Barricade the window yourself. 
Curse you, what else are you good for?” Then he 
laughed ; it was a ghastly laugh, full of agony — full, too, 
of the helpless longing for revenge. I turned away. 
I could not drag the bed from under him. I could not 
provide for my own safety at the expense of this 
wounded fiend. 

I looked at the girl seated on the floor and saw that 
her arm was bleeding. She was wounded, but she 
could understand me. “ Look to the window,” I almost 
shouted in her ear. “ If anybody tries to get in, shout 
for help.” And in an instant I had sprung through 
the open door into the room beyond. 

There the colonel stood at bay. He had heaped up 
some tables and a chest of drawers and an old book- 
case against the door, and the convicts were trying to 
force an entrance. Already most of the furniture had 
been smashed to pieces. They could easily have vaulted 


IN THE STORM 


239 


over what was left but for the stern figure of the old 
soldier who, with sword and pistol, stood on the defen- 
sive still. Their fierce wild faces showed in the door- 
way as they tried to break down or remove the re- 
maining obstacles, and I could see the gleam of more 
than one gun-barrel among them. I glanced round 
the room, and saw that Miss Malcolm was there. She 
was seated at the table, pale as death, her dark hair 
hanging somewhat disordered round her white face, 
but her hands calmly employed in loading a pistol for 
her father. 

There was but one candle in the room, and the colonel 
had with prudent foresight placed it where it could 
give least advantage to the assailants and do the least 
to endanger the defenders. 

The colonel saw me, and a stern smile dawned on his 
face. 

“Take the captain’s sword there, Jenkins, and let us 
stand to the last. I think I can trust you now.” 

“ To the death, sir. But a quarter of an hour should 
do it now. They’ll be here in that time.” 

“You have seen them, then?” 

“ Yes, and I have come to tell you to hold out till 
they come and to help you to do it.” 

“ My God, and you did this for me and mine ? It is 
not possible, man. What are you?” 

I made no reply. At the moment a rush was made 
against what was left of the barricade, and several 
heads appeared above it. I clubbed the carbine that I 
held and sprang forward. Twice I struck with the gun, 
and twice the colonel’s sword flashed in the air. The 
heads disappeared. 

Then there was a pause. Could they be drawing 
off? The colonel seemed to think so, for he exclaimed 


240 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


— “ Ha, you scoundrels, you had better make haste. 
Ten minutes more and you will be too late.” A few 
fierce oaths was the only reply, and still the pause con- 
tinued. We waited and watched in silence. 

The colonel leaned, as if exhausted, on his sword, 
and looked at me. My eyes wandered round the room 
and then rested on Miss Malcolm. She knew that I 
was there, I am sure, but she never looked up. Why 
should she, after all ? Surely I was man enough to die 
for her without being looked at. 

The colonel saw the direction of my look, possibly 
he read the expression of my eyes, for he shook his 
head, and I thought the look he gave me was a look 
of pity. 

We had not long to wait. Suddenly there was a 
crackling sound in an adjoining room, and almost at 
the same moment the smell of fire reached us. They 
were setting fire to the house. If their only object 
was to destroy us, it was their best course. To fight 
this new enemy we were quite powerless, as both we 
and they knew well. 

The colonel looked round at his daughter, and I 
could see something like despair in the old man’s ex- 
pression. She put down the pistol quietly on the table 
and rose. She evidently knew that this was a new 
enemy against which weapons were powerless. 

“We can retreat into the next room,” said the col- 
onel, glancing at me. 

“ Not yet, Colonel Malcolm ; not one moment before 
we are compelled. Let Miss Malcolm go ; but they 
will rush the door if we leave our post. You see they 
have not fired the passage.” 

“True,” he said. “Well, ‘inch by inch’ is a good 
rule, even when fire is the attacking party.” 


IN THE STORM 


241 


The flames increased fast. But a few minutes had 
passed, and already the partition had begun to crack 
and gape in chinks, and smoke and even fire to find its 
way through into the dining-room. It began to eddy 
along the passage also, and to come in at the open door- 
way. Still, no further attempt was made to force an 
entrance ; still no living assailant showed himself in the 
doorway. 

Suddenly, with a rush and a roar, the fire burst 
through the partition wall, and began to climb the 
ceiling of the room in which we stood. The colonel 
motioned to his daughter to retreat into the study, 
while for a few seconds more we watched the door. It 
was as I had suspected ; the convicts had called in the 
fire as an ally, not as a substitute. There was a sound of 
hasty footsteps in the passage, and once more the door- 
way was full of heads. The colonel fired his pistol and 
sprang forward with his sword. I also sprang forward 
to help him ; but now the fire proved an assistance to 
the attacking party. The flames seemed almost to 
scorch us, and the smoke made everything indistinct. 
We struck about us, indeed, but we struck wildly, and 
with no certain aim, and I saw that we could no longer 
defend the entrance against numbers. One man had 
nearly got inside the barricade when I saw and felled 
him with the carbine ; then, shouting, “ Back, colonel, 
back!” I sprang through the smoke and flames into 
the inner room. In a moment the colonel was beside 
me, and we turned to repel the expected rush. It did 
not come. A strong current of air drove smoke and 
flame for a moment across the room we had just left, 
and had no doubt driven back the men who were 
attacking us. 

I shut and locked the study door, rather to keep 
l q 21 


242 


THE TKACK OF A STOKM 


back the fire than the assailants. Almost at the same 
instant several shots were fired through the window, 
and the frame and the glass were smashed by heavy 
blows. I rushed to oppose this new attack, the colonel 
at my side. We were met by a second volley from 
several guns, and I staggered for an instant, feeling 
that I had been struck. Then I saw the colonel in 
front of me grappling fiercely with a man apparently 
much bigger and stronger than himself. I struck 
wildly at his opponent with my gun. The man stag- 
gered back and fell, but the stock of the carbine 
snapped short off, leaving only the barrel in my hand. 
For a few confused seconds I can remember that I 
struck right and left with this weapon, and then I 
found myself grappled by a man taller, and, for the 
moment, stronger than myself. I struggled wildly to 
get my arm free, and in the struggle he fell, and bore 
me to the ground. I was below, and he seized me by 
the throat with a murderous grip. “ Aha 1” he hissed 
into my face, through his set teeth, “ aha, my gen- 
tleman ; have I got you at last ?” It was the harsh 
voice of Long Jim that spoke. The wolfish and blood- 
shot eyes of Long Jim glared fiercely into my own. I 
made a desperate struggle to rise, and failed. Then 
there was a roar and a crash, and I knew no more. 

I came to myself after what could only have been a 
few moments of unconsciousness. I started up into a 
sitting posture, and gazed round me with the startled, 
unreal sensations of a man suddenly relieved from 
deadly peril, and ignorant of the means of his release. 
The body of Long Jim lay, still and heavy, where it 
had fallen across my legs. There was a knot of men 
within a few feet of me crowded round something in 
the corner next to the window, and at the other end of 


IN THE STOKM 


243 


the room the smoke was forcing its way through the 
door, and the crackling of flames could be heard even 
above the noise of the falling rain. With an effort I 
drew my legs clear of my late assailant, and rose with 
difficulty to my feet. I staggered as I tried to reach 
the group before me, and they looked dim and indis- 
tinct before my eyes. Some one grasped me by the 
arm, and led me forward. The group of men made 
way as we came, and I recognized the face of young 
Curtis, standing with something like a letter in his 
hand. They all looked at me with curious eyes. I 
noticed that, but I could make no effort to understand 
what it meant. 

The colonel lay stretched on a mattress on the floor, 
propped against the wall with pillows, and Miss Mal- 
colm knelt at his head, her arm round his neck and 
partly supporting his head on her shoulder. He looked 
round vaguely till his eyes rested on me, then a sudden 
look of recollection spread over his face. 

“Jenkins,” he said, “Jenkins, here’s something for 
you. I hope it contains good news. I know a man 
when I see him. And you have shown yourself both 
a man and a gentleman. Good-bye, Jenkins, I’m 
going.” 

He spoke low and with difficulty, and he tried to 
hold out his hand in which he held a letter. I bent 
forward over the mattress to reach it. I grasped the 
letter and grasped his hand. As I did so my eyes fell 
on the address. The writing was shaky and feeble, 
but still I knew my father’s writing. The address was 
“ Charles Fortescue, Esq., per favor of H. M. Secretary 
of State, Downing Street.” I stared stupidly at the 
writing. I looked stupidly in the face of the dying 
man before me. My eyes rested on the pale and 


244 


THE TRACK OE A STORM 


troubled face of Miss Malcolm, and I fancied her eyes 
rested on me. Then the smoke seemed to come between 
us once more, and make all dim. I felt myself sinking 
forward slowly. I made a half effort to stop myself, 
and I was conscious of nothing more. 


PART III. 

AFTER THE STORM. 


21 * 


245 




















PART III. 

AFTER THE STORM. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was a very long time before I awoke to perfect 
consciousness. I was conscious, indeed, in a degree of 
a long succession of visions or dreams, sometimes hazy 
and vague, at others vivid and terrible. I lived over 
again many a scene of my actual experience, but 
always with a difference. Strange incidents happened, 
strange faces intervened, strange surroundings were 
about me. But one thing never changed, and one 
face was never long absent. In each situation of dan- 
ger, in each crisis of temptation, it was the same face 
that appeared to ward off the danger or to strengthen 
me to resist the temptation. It was the face of Miss 
Malcolm, just as I saw it when she gave me her hand 
as we parted at the gate of the home paddock. 

At last I awoke. The first thing I can remember 
was the soft dim light of a darkened room through 
which there streamed from the window to the floor one 
slender shaft of sunlight. I lay and watched the motes 
that danced and swam in that little river of light, and 
I cannot express the delight it was to watch them, and 
to know, or at least to feel, that here at last was some- 

247 


248 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


thing real. Then I tried to move, and was feebly sur- 
prised to find that I was unable to do so. Then I heard 
a soft, stealthy footstep, and could see a woman’s face 
bend over and look into my own. I smiled, and she 
drew back quickly, and I could hear her leave the 
room. I tried to think who she was and where she 
had gone, but the effort was too great, and gradually I 
lost consciousness once more. 

From that day I grew stronger. Each time I woke 
I seemed to have gained a fresh stock of vigor ; each 
time I sank to sleep I seemed to obtain real refresh- 
ment. I had escaped from dream-land once for all, for 
now my sleep was undisturbed by memories of the past 
and unchequered by dreams of the future. I was con- 
valescent. Strangely enough, I had little memory and 
no curiosity. I appeared to have many friends, and 
yet it was long before I asked myself who they could 
be, or thought of asking a question either of my kind 
nurse or of the doctor, whose face was strangely 
familiar, like a face out of some former existence, but 
of whose identity I was wholly and contentedly igno- 
rant. 

Gradually, as I grew stronger, this apathy began to 
wear away. Day by day I was conscious of a greater 
amount of interest in the faces I saw, which were but 
two, and in the low voices I heard asking after my 
health. Still I hesitated to ask. With returning 
strength there came also, not recollection of the past, 
indeed, but a glimmering consciousness of a past, the 
forerunner of recollection. I remembered nothing, but 
I trembled on the brink of memory, and instinctively 
I shrank. I was the subject of a tender thoughtful- 
ness from day to day, for which I seemed to myself 
vaguely to be unable to account. 


AFTER THE STORM 


240 


Curiosity at last won the day, and I asked my nurse, 
who was moving softly about the room, tidying what 
was already perfection, where I was. She turned 
quickly and looked at me as if startled by the ques- 
tion, or by the fact that I had at last asked a question 
at all ; then, dropping a courtesy, and saying, “ In Syd- 
ney, sir, to be sure,” she hastily left the room. In a 
few minutes a footstep sounded in the passage, and the 
doctor entered the room and came quietly up to the 
bed. He looked into my eyes with an expression of 
such eager curiosity that I broke into a feeble laugh. 
“ Ha !” he exclaimed, “ natural, quite natural ! I 
thought as much ; indeed, I said so, but that ass 
Bridges would have it — but there, only another illus- 
tration, after all.” As he spoke he was inspecting my 
eyes and face critically and minutely, and when he had 
finished he laughed, in concert with the laugh which 
my own weakness and his singular excitement would 
not allow me to get over. 

“How, I suppose, you want to know everything, 
don’t you?” he exclaimed, using his pocket handker- 
chief with what seemed unnecessary vigor. 

“ I’m not so unreasonable, doctor ; only one or two 
things.” 

“ Well, my dear sir, what are they ? I dare say that 
old fool Bridges would say I was killing you. But 
there, never mind him. What is it?” 

“ Only this, where am I, and why am I here ?” 

“ Good, very good, indeed. Curiosity restored, mem- 
ory soon follow. Well, sir, you are in Sydney, in hos- 
pital. You are here for a variety of reasons, some of 
which I don’t know. One of them was that you were 
all but dead of wounds and fever.” 

I lay back on the pillow as he spoke. Yes, he was 


250 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


right ; curiosity was the forerunner of memory. Even 
as he spoke, the veil that hung over the past seemed to 
part asunder, and the last active scenes of my life were 
again acted before me. I stood again in the room of 
the burning house. I looked again into the haggard 
and deathly face of Colonel Malcolm. I seemed to 
hear once more his last words ; and again I seemed to 
take from his trembling hand the letter with that 
address. I looked up quickly in the doctor’s face. 
“ There was a letter, doctor.” 

“I said so,” exclaimed the worthy enthusiast. “I 
said so. Yes, there was a letter, and it is here. But 
wait. Let me feel your pulse.” He seized my wrist, 
although I question if he was calm enough to count the 
beats of my pulse. I pulled it feebly away. “ Oh, 
never mind the pulse, doctor; the excitement of sus- 
pense is the worst kind of excitement.” 

“ True,” he said, “ true. A very sensible observation, 
too. I wonder how long it would have taken Bridges 
to find that out !” 

He crossed the room and opened a drawer, then he 
came back with the letter in his hand. 

“ I won’t leave the room,” he said, “ for I am afraid 
this will be a trying letter, whatever it contains.” 

I scarcely heard what the worthy doctor said ; I 
hardly understood a word he uttered. I held the letter 
in my hands once more. I recognized the familiar, 
though sadly altered writing. 

I paused for an instant, then I broke the seal. I 
suppose I was clumsy ; I suppose the excitement had 
made my hands even more tremulous than usual. Two 
enclosures fell out of the envelope upon the bed. One 
was open and short, the other was closed and sealed 
with black sealing-wax. I lifted the open letter, after 


AFTER THE STORM 


251 


pausing a moment to recover myself. It was written 
like the address, and was signed by my father. 

“ My dear Son, — I bless you for your noble sacrifice, 
yet I can but regret that it was made in vain. He who 
was my son did not know it. Thank God, there is still 
that to be said for him. What he had to say you will 
find enclosed with this. He left it behind him when he 
could no longer face disgrace. Would to God he had 
died earlier and otherwise. For the sake of the dead 
you have concealed the truth so long ; for the sake of 
the living I have made it fully known where it was 
necessary to right you. If possible, my son, let me see 
you again, that I may bless you before I die. 

“ Your loving father, 

“Charles Fortescue.” 

There was no date — nothing to indicate when it was 
written or where. Abruptly it began ; tremulously it 
ended. It was the letter indited by a broken heart. 
Was that heart already cold? Was the trembling 
hand that had penned the lines already at rest? It 
might be so; most likely it was. Slowly my eyes 
followed the irregular lines to the bottom of the page ; 
the sheet dropped from my nerveless fingers. 

“Righted,” I murmured to myself. “Righted, but 
at what a price !” The death of a father and a brother, 
the disgrace of an old and honorable house. Righted ! 
Alas, there are wrongs that are never righted in this 
world : will they ever be so in any other ? 

I looked at the sealed enclosure for some time, but I 
had not the courage to open it. It had to be done, 
however, and at last I did it. It was George’s writing, 
but hurried, agitated, and in places nearly illegible. 


252 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“My Brother, — This is a message from the dead. 
Long months before you hear of these lines or of me I 
shall have lain in a dishonored grave. It is just, and it 
is necessary. Believe me, I never knew. God knows 
I am bad enough, but never, at the worst, as bad as 
that. To-day I have seen the Governor of Newgate 
and I have heard all. Oh, my God, what must you 
have thought of me ? Of course you knew all along 
that I was the man. Now, others must know it too. 
To me, after to-night that will matter nothing ; to you 
it will still matter something. Let me tell you how it 
was. It was for a wager that I robbed the coach, and 
when I had done it with so terrible a result I paid the 
bet with some of the money rather than tell the truth. 
Then I went to France, and I never saw you again. 
To-day, only to-day — I swear by heaven — did I learn 
how you had sacrificed yourself for me. The shame 
of it and the horror of it would kill me if my life had 
not been forfeited at any rate. There remains only 
one thing to be done now, and it is easy enough — easier 
by far than living on as the scoundrel who was brave 
enough to rob and murder, and coward enough to let 
his brother pay the penalty. Think kindly of me, 
sometimes, Charley, if you can. Bemember that we 
were boys together, and forget my later life when you 
can. I did not mean to be a criminal. Still less did I 
mean to be a coward who, by concealing his crime, let 
his brother suffer for it. Perhaps years hence you may 
even forgive me. I hope so, though I shall never know 
it. Good-bye. 

“ George Fortescue.” 

The paper dropped from my hand. Here, then, was 
the end of it all. My sacrifice had been made, and it 


AFTER THE STORM 


253 


had failed. Personally I was cleared of guilt. Per- 
sonally I was in some sense restored at the cost of all 
for which I had struggled and suffered ; but the clearing 
could, after all, be only partial, the restoration only 
a name. Nothing could bring back what was lost. 
Nothing could erase the brands of shame and of degra- 
dation from body and soul. There are blots too deep 
for erasure. There are scars which after healing are 
hardly less revolting than before. 

Time passed me by, and still I remained as at first. 
The doctor came and glanced at me once or twice, went 
away again without speaking, and at last he left the 
room. There I sat propped with pillows, idly turning 
in my hands the fatal letters which only spoke to me 
of sorrow without remedy and failure without hope. I 
cannot say I thought, perhaps my brain was still too 
weak for thought, but it was not too insensible for 
feeling. How long I remained there alone I cannot 
even guess, for sensation and not duration was present 
with me then. I was alone and it seemed as if I was 
condemned to be alone for ever. Of what account 
were moments or hours in such a case as mine ? 

At last the doctor returned. He entered softly and 
came to the side of my bed, and there was sympathy 
and even emotion in his face as he looked at me silently. 

I felt that so it was, and I was grateful. “ Thank 
you, doctor,” I said, “ you are very kind.” 

His face lighted up with an expression of satisfaction. 
“Wait a minute,” he said, “you can thank me then.” 

Again he left the room for a minute or two ; then he 
came back. I could hear him open the door softly, but 
from where I lay I could not see it. I had no curiosity, 
however ; I had returned to my melancholy musings. 

“ Mr. Fortescue !” The name was spoken in a voice 
22 


254 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


that was low and slightly tremulous, but it was a voice 
like no other voice on earth to my ear. 

I turned my face. She stood there — pale ; dressed 
wholly in black ; her large soft eyes full of tears. Face 
to face with me once more stood the woman who had 
been my good angel — the one woman on earth to me. 

I looked at her, and once more she held out her hand 
to me. Once more I grasped it. I bent over it, but 
my emotion overcame me. I was very weak, and now 
great tears gathered in my eyes, and dropped slowly 
upon her hand and on mine. I think she saw and 
understood, for she let the hand remain. And every 
tear as it fell seemed to wash away a stain from my 
past ; while dimly through the mist I seemed able to 
discern the rainbow colors of a happier future. 


CHAPTER II. 

LEAVES FROM MISS MALCOLM’S DIARY. 

December 20, 1834. — I have been here exactly three 
months now, and, although I don’t like saying it even 
to myself, I am so disappointed. Hot with the country 
or the climate, for these are far better than I expected 
— it is the life that is so dreary and so lonely. Papa 
is ever so kind, and I know he does his best to make 
me like it ; and cousin Reginald is always attentive and 
nice. We see something of our neighbors, too — (fancy 
neighbors thirty or forty miles away !) — and some of 
them are pleasant people, though hardly what one 
could make friends of. But yet it is dreary and lonely. 
We have two Irish maids, and besides the overseer 
there are three free men on the station, and that is all. 
I don’t know how many prisoners there are, for I never 
see any of them except a long way off, and papa never 
speaks of them when I am there, but somehow I can’t 
help thinking about them, poor creatures. I have seen 
the huts where they live, and they seem to me dreadful 
places ; and I have seen some of the men themselves 
at a distance, and they seemed to me to look dreadful, 
too — so utterly hopeless and bad. I always feel as if 
we were doing wrong while we don’t try to do anything 
to make their lives less wretched. Perhaps if we did 
it might make them better. I know that convicts are 
not all so bad, for I can remember those we had on the 
Torres Yedras. I don’t think any of them were quite 
ungrateful for kindness. I often wonder what became 

255 


256 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


of 321 and 322. Papa never told me anything about 
them, and I have never liked to ask him after the way 
he spoke when I asked him to take them. How strange 
it would be if they were here after all, living, perhaps, 
in those dreadful huts — and I know he must once have 
lived so differently. How strange it must be, and hor- 
rible, if after all it were only some terrible mistake. I 
wonder if it is possible that a man could suffer in that 
way and yet live on. Yet he looked like it. I never 
saw such a face ; and even now I see it often in my 
dreams — always with the same stony look in the eyes 
and always the same dull, fierce fire smouldering far 
down in their black depths. But there — I mustn’t 
think of it or I shall be haunted. 

January 10, 1835. — I am afraid things are not going 
on well with the prisoners, and I can’t help being a 
little afraid that Reginald and even papa must be a 
little to blame. Of course I don’t know much about 
it, and I may be wrong, for they never talk about 
these things before me ; but Bridget says some of our 
prisoners have been flogged for insubordination over at 
Turner’s run. I don’t like Mr. Turner one bit, and I 
wonder papa has anything to do with him. I know 
he used to say he was a cruel tyrant to his own men, 
and how can he let him judge and punish ours ? I am 
afraid it is quite true, though, and I don’t think it ever 
does one scrap of good. I know papa looks twice as 
stern and anxious as he did when first I came up, and 
I can see that Reginald feels very uncomfortable. I 
wonder if the prisoners would really do anything. 
Bridget says they sometimes do when they grow very 
desperate, and then go off and turn into bushrangers. 
Oh, I do hope they won’t grow desperate. I wish I 
knew some of them. I think if only one knew their 


AFTER THE STORM 


257 


faces it would seem less dreadful. It is just like a 
great big thunder-cloud creeping over the sky, when 
one can’t even fancy where the flash is going to come 
from first. 

February 27. — I think I made a discovery to-day. I 
do believe he is here, after all. Papa was talking in 
the garden this morning to Mr. Pinnock, and I could 
hear from my room. Papa said, “ How does he seem 
to get on at that work?” and Mr. Pinnock said, “Joe 
tells me he is quite wonderful for a new band. He 
has taken that wild colt they call ‘Fireking,’ that 
nobody could ride, and he can do anything with him 
already.” “Well,” said papa, “you had better keep 
him at that work, I think ; he is better away from the 
others.” “Very well, sir,” Mr. Pinnock said, “I think 
so, too. You see he is so different from the rest that if 
he turned rusty he would be a natural leader and very 
dangerous.” “You think so, do you?” papa said, as 
if he was considering. “Well, I’m almost sorry, but 
there, it can’t be helped now. So you had better keep 
him with Joe. Hoes he seem sulky?” “Well, sir, I 
shouldn’t exactly call it that. He isn’t a bit like any 
other hand I’ve ever had to do with, that’s the fact. 
You see, sir, when we meet he’s civil enough ; but he 
has a look in his eyes that I can’t describe, only I don’t 
like it.” “ He isn’t disrespectful, then ?” “ Why, no, 

sir, not what you could call disrespectful, you see ; but 
it makes me uncomfortable, as if it was himself he 
respected and not me.” That was all I heard, for they 
walked round the end of the house ; but I feel sure 
they were speaking about him. That look in his eyes 
is the very one I saw there that last morning on board 
the Torres Yedras — so stony, and yet so full of fire, 
deep down. And then the wild horse, too. He was 

r 22 * 


258 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


just that sort of man. I can fancy I see him now as 
he plunged headlong after little Georgie into the rush- 
ing waves. Yes, it must be the same. How strange 
and how terrible such a life must be to him ! Joe — he 
is one of the stockmen, I know — perhaps I could find 
out something through him. Bridget often talks to 
Joe when he comes up to the house : I dare say I could 
hear through her. I wish there was any way of making 
the life less terrible for him. It must be a dreadful 
life for any one, but for a gentleman — and he is a gen- 
tleman, I am quite certain — I don’t know how he can 
go on living. 

March 3. — I got Bridget to ask Joe about him ; and 
now I wish I hadn’t. What she has just told me is 
dreadful. Joe says his name is Jenkins, and that the 
prisoners always call him “ the Gentleman,” so it must 
be the same. He has been helping Joe with the cattle 
for a good while now, and he told Bridget that he was 
the finest man he had ever seen, and the boldest rider. 
What is so dreadful is that Bridget says he was one of 
the men who was tried and punished over at Turner’s. 
Flogged, actually flogged ! I can hardly believe it pos- 
sible, somehow, though Bridget says that Joe was quite 
sure, for he swore, and said it was a shame. What an 
awful thing, if it is really true! A gentleman — for 
whatever he may have done in all his life I know he is 
a gentleman still. Yes, and I believe an innocent man, 
too. I am quite sure he never robbed any one in his 
life ; and if he didn’t do that he is almost sure not to 
have done the murder either. Juries often make mis- 
takes, I know : I have often heard of terrible mistakes 
found out years after, when it was too late. And if 
this should be a case like that and papa has been the 
means of getting him flogged — oh, it is too horrible. 


AFTER THE STORM 


259 


.Now I can understand what papa meant by saying he 
was almost sorry. Almost sorry, indeed, for being the 
cause of an outrage like that ! I could cry when I 
think of it — I could go down on my knees and beg 
forgiveness if by any terrible mistake I had done such 
a thing. How he must hate papa and all of us for it. 
I know I should, in his place, with my whole heart. 
Oh, dear, I wish I had never tried to find out about it 
at all ; for now I know, and I can’t do one single thing 
to make matters better. 

March 9. — I have seen him to-day for the first time 
since that last day on board ship. We were going for 
a ride — papa and Reginald and I — when we met him. 
He was riding a very tall bay horse and carrying poor 
Joe in his arms. We thought something must be wrong, 
so papa rode across to meet him. Reginald and I fol- 
lowed a little way behind him. When we got close I 
felt quite sure Joe must be dead. Papa spoke to him 
very sternly, and asked what had happened. He said 
Joe had been killed by the blacks up at the western 
range. Then papa asked two or three questions, as if 
he didn’t believe him — almost as if he thought he 
might have murdered Joe himself. I looked at him 
whilst papa was speaking, and his face frightened me. 
It was a good deal changed from what it had been even 
on that last day on board ship. It was quite calm, 
deadly calm — now ; but it was far more terrible than 
any other face I ever saw that was angry. He an- 
swered papa very quietly, but there was something in 
his tone that made me tremble. I thought of all he 
must have suffered, and then I seemed to understand 
it. I only wondered how he could manage to speak 
quietly at all. Then Reginald said something. I didn’t 
hear what it was exactly, but it must have been some- 


260 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


thing against him, I think — for he just turned round 
and looked at him. I don’t know what it was in that 
look that did it, but I knoAV I felt a cold chill run all 
down my back as I looked at him. Reginald didn’t 
like it either, I could see, for he turned away hastily 
and proposed that we should ride on. I couldn’t go, 
somehow. I felt as if I must say something, so I re- 
minded papa about his saving Georgie Malet’s life at 
the risk of his own. When I spoke, he looked at me 
for the first time. I could see that he knew me in a 
moment, and then such a strange light sprang up in 
his eyes all at once. I don’t know what it was like 
exactly; but at the moment it reminded me of the 
warm glowing light — both bright and soft — that often 
comes into the eastern sky just before the sun rises. I 
only looked for one moment, for of course one couldn’t 
stare at him, and then papa said he would inquire about 
Joe and told him to take the body down to Mr. Pin- 
nock’s house and bring Mr. Pinnock up. I asked papa 
one or two questions, and he spoke in such a bitter con- 
temptuous tone that I asked no more. I wonder if 
Reginald had anything specially to do with his being 
punished at Turner’s. I wonder what papa will find 
out when he goes to find out about Joe. 

March 11. — Papa was away all day yesterday at 
the western range, where Joe was killed. He seemed 
very tired when he got home, and I didn’t like to worry 
him with questions, especially while Reginald was 
there. This morning, after Reginald went out, I asked 
him if he had seen any blacks. He looked at me for a 
moment, curiously, I thought ; then he said “ Yes, sev- 
eral.” “Were they dangerous ?” I asked. “Ho, they 
were dead,” he said. “ Dead ? How had they been 
killed, papa ?” “ That hero of yours, Kate, must have 


AFTEK THE STOKM 


261 


killed them, I suppose, as he said he did.” “ Then you 
found I was right about him, papa. He was to be 
trusted ?” He looked at me for a moment, and I 
thought he looked annoyed. Then he said, very coldly, 
“Yes, in this case I believe he spoke the truth.” Then 
he turned away. I can’t think what annoyed him, but 
I feel assured he was annoyed at my asking. I 
couldn’t ask anything more then, but Bridget heard 
from one of the other stockmen, who went with papa, 
how it was. These dreadful blacks came and speared 
both Joe and his horse before he got there. Then he 
came up, and though he had no gun or anything but his 
whip, he rode in among them and drove them all away. 
He actually killed three of them. Dick told Bridget 
that he had broken their skulls with his whip-handle. 
He seemed to be very much surprised, and he might 
well be. I suppose such a thing was never done before 
in all the world. Oh, if I were only a man, how I 
should love to be strong and brave like that. It was 
just like his leaping into the sea after Georgie. How 
strange and delightful it must feel to have no fears 
at all. 

April 8. — This has been the strangest and most ter- 
rible day in all my life. Even now I can hardly remem- 
ber clearly all that has happened. When Eeginald 
and I went out after lunch for our usual ride, I no- 
ticed how very curious the sky looked. There were 
no clouds at all, yet, somehow, the sky wasn’t blue, but 
only grey and dirty looking. The sun seemed hot, but 
it didn’t shine brightly, only with a strange glaring 
light I had never noticed before. Eeginald didn’t seem 
to think much of it, so we rode on towards the ranges. 
By the time we got there it had begun to blow with 
quite a strong breeze in our faces, and though the 


262 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


wind was quite hot it seemed a little better than noth- 
ing. The dreadful drought we have had so long had 
made itself felt even among the trees* up on the range. 
Any grass there had been withered, of course, to a 
yellowish-brown color, so that you could hardly fancy 
it had ever been green and fresh looking. The strange 
thing was that even the leaves of the trees were with- 
ered, too, and all shrivelled up and dry. Some of them 
had dropped off altogether, and lay in little brown 
heaps under the trees and shrubs. It was altogether a 
very melancholy sight — far more melancholy than even 
a wintry wood at home. That seems natural and beau- 
tiful, even though it isn’t cheerful, but this looked only 
wretched and unnatural. 

We crossed the range and rode down the other side 
till we came to what the men call “the Big Scrub.” I 
think Reginald wanted to see the stockmen in charge 
of the cattle there about something, for he stopped and 
“ coo-eed” a good many times, but nobody answered. 
At last he gave it up, and we turned and rode back. It 
was blowing much harder now, — indeed, it was growing 
very boisterous, and we were glad to turn our backs to 
it. At last, just as we were at the beginning of the 
slope up to the range again, we saw a man on horse- 
back coming down. I knew him in a moment, and I 
think Reginald did, too, for he gave an impatient pull 
at his rein and made his horse canter. In a minute or 
two we met him. I couldn’t help looking at him as he 
came near. Horse and man were so well matched — 
both looked so powerful and yet so entirely at ease. 
When we met him he pulled his horse to one side to 
give us plenty of room to pass. I couldn’t help it, 
I smiled and bowed to him as I should have done if I 
had met him riding in the park. He instantly pulled 


AFTER THE STORM 


263 


off his hat, and the same strangely bright look came 
into his eyes once more as I passed him. 

We went slowly up the hill without speaking. I 
don’t know what Reginald was thinking of, and 1 
hardly know what I was thinking about myself, when 
all of a sudden I noticed that the air was growing hazy 
with smoke. My exclamation attracted Reginald’s 
attention to it, too. He tried to make out what it 
was, but from where we were we couldn’t see where it 
came from at all. Reginald called to me to stay where 
I was till ho came back, and then rode back to find out. 
This turned out to be a terrible mistake, but of course 
we didn’t know any better at the time. I began to 
grow frightened. Already the smoke began to come up 
in black waves that surged round the tali gum-trees and 
settled down among the shrubs. The wind was grow- 
ing stronger, too, and the trees were beginning to bend 
and moan, and through it all I fancied I could hear the 
sound of a distant roaring in the direction from which 
the wind was coming. Just then Reginald came gal- 
loping back along the track. “ It’s a great bush fire,” 
he shouted. “ We must make haste out of this.” 

He galloped on, and I galloped after him. I could 
feel that my little mare Fleetwing was very much fright- 
ened, and I didn’t wonder at it, for I know I was grow- 
ing frightened myself. The smoke was the most trying 
part of it, I think, and the great heat, but the most 
frightful thing was the terrible roaring noise behind 
us. Again and again I tried to look over my shoulder 
to make out what it could be. I couldn’t help it, the 
noise was so dreadful, and I could see that Reginald 
did just the same, but it was useless. We only scorched 
our faces and got our eyes blinded with the heat and 
the smoke. I began to grow very frightened, indeed. 


264 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


The stories I had heard some of our visitors tell of ter- 
rible bush fires and of people being caught in them 
and lost, all rushed back on my memory at once, and 
I began to feel as if we should never get away. 

It grew hotter and hotter. The wind seemed to 
scorch wherever it touched our skin, and the smoke 
was all round us now so that we could see nothing 
distinctly. The gum-trees seemed to come and go 
through the smoke, appearing and vanishing again like 
tall gray ghosts, and the underwood was all blurred 
and indistinct, and flitted past us like something half 
seen in a dream. I could just make out Reginald’s 
grey horse in front of me, and all I was clearly con- 
scious of was the effort to make Fleetwing follow 
him. 

1 suppose it was my mistake. Most likely if I had 
not pulled at the rein poor Fleetwing would have man- 
aged better, and all sorts of misfortunes would have 
been avoided At any rate, I did the best I could, and 
I hardly knew what I was doing, after all. All on a 
sudden something happened to Fleetwing. I don’t 
know how or why it was, but I felt her fall under me. 
It was like falling in a dream. It did not make me 
feel any more frightened than I was before, only I felt 
myself going. Fleetwing had fallen, and before I could 
think at all I found that I had scrambled to my feet. 
I must have screamed, I suppose, for when I looked 
round Reginald had turned his horse and come back. 
“ Can’t she rise ?” he shouted. I could scarcely hear 
him, for the noise all around us had grown so awful. I 
looked stupidly at poor Fleetwing, who lay on her 
side, partly over a log, and I shook my head. I don’t 
know what I thought at the moment. I suppose I was 
really too confused to think, but I fancy sorrow for poor 


AFTER THE STORM 


265 


Fleetwing was the nearest thing to thought in my 
mind just then. 

“ For God’s sake try to get her up, Kate, or we are 
lost,” he shouted again, getting off his horse and try- 
ing to lead him closer. I looked in his face, and I 
hardly knew him. He was deadly pale, and oh, so 
ghastly, and his eyes were full of a wild look of terror. 
I knew then that he was even more afraid than I was, 
and I stared at him in surprise. I had never thought 
before of a man getting frightened, and for the mo- 
ment it seemed to drive away my own fears. 

The fire was very near us now. We could hear it 
hiss and crackle as well as roar, and Eeginald’s horse 
was so terrified that he struggled hard to get away. 
We must have been quite close together, yet the 
wreaths of smoke curled in between and seemed to 
separate us. .Reginald shouted for help again and 
again. I had no idea his voice was so strong, yet it 
was thrown back as if it only went a very few yards 
from where we stood. Suddenly there came a shout 
in reply. It seemed to wake me up from the stupid 
numb lethargy that seemed creeping over me. I 
started and looked around, and I could just see through 
the black smoke that was growing red now in places, 
as if with fire, the tall red horse and the powerful fig- 
ure of his rider. They looked gigantic as they came 
towards us through the smoke, leaping wildly over the 
logs and bushes. 

In an instant he had thrown himself from his horse 
beside us and said something to Eeginald. I didn’t 
hear what it was, for at that moment a great crimson 
tongue of fire darted out of a black cloud of smoke 
and seized on the top of a huge old gum-tree which 
was actually in front of us. The tree seemed to trem- 
m 23 


266 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


ble and wither up in its grasp, and thousands of burn- 
ing, crackling leaves fell all round us in a shower. In 
spite of my fear I could not help looking at it just for 
a moment, it was so awfully beautiful, and when I 
looked back again Reginald was struggling into the 
saddle again. Almost before he could get up, the horse 
started, but as he went Reginald looked back and shook 
his fist, shouting, “ Give your master’s daughter the 
horse, you scoundrel !” Cruel as the words were, the 
tone of them was more cruel still. I don’t think until 
that moment I ever knew what it was really to feel 
ashamed ; every drop of blood in my body seemed to 
fly to my face, and I felt as if I could never look at 
him again. Then the man beside me spoke, and, in 
spite of the noise, his voice sounded clear and strong, 
and, in spite of our danger, it was quite calm. 

He said, “ Come, Miss Malcolm. It is not too late 
yet.” I couldn’t help it; ashamed as I was, I had to 
look him in the face ; frightened as I was, I had to obey 
his quiet tone of command. I looked at him, and then 
I couldn’t look away. I had just been shocked by the 
sight of the terror in Reginald’s face, and his was just 
the opposite. There was not a sign of fear, only calm 
readiness and perfect confidence. There was contempt 
— yes, a good deal of contempt — in his look, too, and I 
wondered for a moment whether it was caused by my 
fright. Then I remembered Reginald’s words, and his 
tone and his looks ; and I knew what it meant, and how 
well it was deserved. 

He beckoned me to come closer to his horse, and I 
knew he meant to try and take me with him. I felt 
sure it must be hopeless, and I seemed to know that 
he was only going to sacrifice his own life in trying to 
save mine. I don’t exactly know what I said, but I 


AFTER THE STORM 


267 


know I refused. I know I told him to leave me and 
to save his own life. 

“ Never,” he exclaimed. “ Come with me. For God’s 
sake, come, and I will save you yet. If not, I can die 
here.” I seemed to know what he felt when he said 
that. I knew, or at least I thought I knew, that he 
was thinking of his being a convict and that I would 
rather die than trust myself to him ; and I felt ashamed. 
It seemed to me that it would be almost more insulting 
than Reginald’s words if I refused to trust him: I 
couldn’t do it. 

I looked him in the face once more, and his strong 
fiery black eyes seemed to master me : I had to do as 
he wished. 

I held out my hand to him and said I trusted him. 
It seemed all to pass in a moment. The burning, 
shrivelling leaves were still falling from the gum-tree 
around us, and the roaring of the fire was behind us 
still, when I found myself swung upon the saddle in 
front of him and clasped tightly round the waist. 

I could feel the strong bounding motion of the horse 
under me : I could see the falling leaves sparkling and 
flickering through the smoke, and the tall trees blazing 
like torches to their very topmost branches on all sides 
of us ; and I could feel rather than see that he was 
bending over me to keep the burning leaves and twigs 
off my face as I leaned against him. It was awful 
and terrible, but somehow I was no longer frightened. 
I suppose it was seeing him so brave and calm that did 
it. But my head felt heavy, and everything swam 
before my eyes, and then I lost consciousness. 

When I woke again the first thing I saw was his 
face bending over me. It looked so strong and yet the 
eyes were so soft and pitying that for the moment I 


268 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


felt like a little child who is being taken care of. Then 
I remembered, and sat up, and heard him say, in a very 
low voice, “ Thank God.” I looked round, and saw that 
we had escaped. We were quite clear of the fire now, 
and not very far from the house. I asked if I couldn’t 
walk, and he dismounted instantly and helped me 
down. Then we walked on together towards the house, 
he leading his horse by the bridle. He didn’t say any- 
thing, and I was so stupid I didn’t know what to say. 
My mind seemed in a whirl and incapable of thinking 
of anything clearly ; only I knew that he was walking 
there beside me, and I knew that I owed him my life. 

He opened the last gate for me to go through, and 
there he stopped. I passed through and then I looked 
back for him to follow. He did not move ; he only 
looked after me. Then he said, “ Good-bye, Miss Mal- 
colm ; good-bye, and God bless you.” The last words 
were almost like a cry, and when I looked into his face 
it was drawn and dreadfully pale as if he was suffering 
some terrible agony. Could it be that he thought me 
ungrateful ? Could he fancy that I thought I had a 
right to his almost throwing away his life for me? I 
couldn’t bear that. 

I turned back and offered him my hand. I begged 
him to believe that I was grateful for his great good- 
ness to me. I could have gone on my knees to him, if 
it would have got rid of that awful look of agony on 
his face. He never said a word. He only bent over 
the hand he held and kissed it. Only once — but that 
once could have been like no other kiss that any man 
ever pressed on the hand of any woman, I think. It 
seemed to burn. My hand has felt it ever since : it 
feels it now. What did it mean, that kiss? What 
could it mean, from him to me ? I have thought about 


AFTER THE STORM 


269 


it ever since ; I can hardly think of anything else now. 
It was so wild, so despairing. Could it possibly have 
been anything else ? 

Just before dark they brought Reginald home. He 
is dreadfully injured, poor fellow. The horse must 
have fallen with him and broken his arm, and the fire 
has scorched him dreadfully. He was sensible after 
they laid him on his bed, but he wouldn’t look at me 
at all. I suppose he can remember. Papa and Mr. 
Pinnock have taken off his burnt clothes and made 
him as comfortable as they could till they can send for 
a doctor, and now Mr. Pinnock has gone home again. 
It was too late to send any one for a doctor to-night, 
but papa says a detachment of the mounted force will 
be here to-morrow and perhaps they may have a doctor 
with them. I heard papa say when he spoke of the 
force coming, “ Thank God for that.” I wonder what 
he meant by that? Well, I had better leave off. I 
have written a very long piece, I see ; but I am never 
likely in all my life to have such an adventure to write 
about again. 


23 * 


CHAPTER III. 


MISS MALCOLM’S STORY. 

I have promised him to write this, and already I 
have sat for an hour looking hopelessly at the last 
entries in the old diary that was saved from the fire. 
It all seems so very strange and distant now, like the 
things that may have happened in some former state 
of existence to some one I knew, but certainly not to 
myself. It was only a little more than three months 
ago that I wrote these last lines, and now it all seems 
so different. 

It is really only a few short weeks, and yet a whole 
life-time seems to have passed since then. How strange 
it is — and he has hardly lived at all. 

I suppose I had better begin this where I left off in 
my diary, as he wants to know everything. Well, I 
had scarcely written the last words when there came 
a frightful flash of lightning, which for the moment 
seemed to blind me. It was followed instantly by a 
peal of thunder, the very loudest I ever heard. I rose 
from my seat and went to the window. It looked out 
on the garden and I pulled up the blind and tried to 
look out. It was too dark to see anything. It looked 
just like a great black wall built up close in front of 
the window: I could see absolutely nothing. I un- 
fastened the window and opened it a little way. Still 
I could see nothing. Still it was absolutely dark, and 
now I noticed that it was absolutely still. The wind 
had died quite away, and not a breath of air seemed 
270 


AFTER THE STORM 


271 


to be moving. The heavy drops of rain that had begun 
to fall had stopped again, and now not even a leaf 
seemed to move in the garden to break the deadly 
silence. The stillness coming just after that peal of 
thunder was almost terrible. It was broken quite sud- 
denly by the sound of a light footstep on the garden 
path at the side of the house, and I heard a voice 
speaking in a low tone. Then I could hear papa’s voice 
speaking more loudly, and, before I could even try to 
make out what it was about, there followed the quick, 
sharp report of a pistol. My first thought was that 
some one had fired at papa, and I rushed out of my 
room through the passage and the dining-room to see 
what it was. 

As I burst into the study I found myself once more 
face to face with my preserver. He had grasped papa’s 
arm and was saying something very earnestly to him 
as I came in. The light smoke from the pistol still 
hung about the room in hazy wreaths, and my father 
still held it in his hand. Both of them looked pale 
and excited, and papa seemed to be greatly agitated. 
The other face, although it was pale, was as firm and 
determined as ever. It had the very same look I had 
seen on it when Reginald rode away and left us. When 
he caught sight of me it changed in a moment, as he 
tried to reassure me about the pistol-shot. Even when 
I noticed the blood dropping from his shoulder he only 
smiled — such a calm, easy smile — and said it was nothing. 
Then he spoke to papa again, and told him we were in 
real danger and begged him for my sake — he said it 
was for my sake — to escape at once. But papa said, 
“No,” and I knew we must not, because of poor Regi- 
nald. Just for one moment the thought came into my 
mind how he had deserted us that very day — although 


272 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


papa didn’t know of it — but then I felt ashamed of the 
thought, for, of course, we couldn’t do so to him, when 
he was quite helpless, poor fellow. 

At last he convinced papa, I think, that he really 
was our friend. It made me shudder to see how hard 
papa was to convince, for I felt that only the sense 
that he had treated him badly could have made him 
doubt : but then, of course, I knew what he had done 
for me and how he had done it, and I had never had a 
chance of telling papa anything but the mere fact that 
he had saved me. Papa, I could see, could hardly un- 
derstand how he could possibly forgive ; and even I, 
though I knew how noble he was, could hardly look at 
him, with the blood running from his wound all the 
time, and yet begging papa to trust him to help us — 
I could hardly understand how he could do it. He said 
it was for my sake — for mine. It was like a dream, for 
as he said it he glanced at me, and there was that look 
in his eyes I had seen twice before, and I thought — I 
don’t exactly know what I thought, but I seemed to 
feel a strange new feeling pass through me, and for the 
moment all the fear and trouble melted away, and I 
only felt glad. I scarcely heard what was said after 
that till I saw papa stretch his hand to him. He 
grasped it, and I could see his whole face light up as 
he did it with a look I had never seen in any one’s face 
before — not exactly glad, but very beautiful and solemn. 
Then without another word he turned and jumped out 
of the open window into the darkness. 

I believe both papa and I stood gazing after him 
when he had gone as long as his quick footstep could 
be heard. Then I drew a long breath of relief, and 
exclaimed, — 

“Oh, papa, I’m so glad!” He looked strangely at 


AFTER THE STORM 


273 


me for a moment, then he said, almost crossly, I 
thought, — 

“ Glad, child ? What are you glad about ?” 

“ Glad that he took your hand, papa,” I answered, 
hardly thinking how it must sound to him. He grew 
a little red as he said, hastily, — 

“ You put it very strangely, Kate, I must say. But, 
after all, the circumstances are singular, I must admit. 
After all, I must say he is a fine fellow.” 

I felt so glad when he said that that I couldn’t speak ; 
only the tears came into my eyes. Why is it, I wonder, 
that we girls always do that? When we feel ever so 
determined and heroic, all we seem able to do is to cry. 
It is horrid. 

Papa looked startled and almost angry. “ My God, 
Kate,” he said, “ take care. He may be a fine fellow, 
but he’s a convict all the same.” 

“ I know, papa, that he is a convict, but I know it 
must be a mistake. He is a hero. He has shown it 
twice to-day.” I don’t know how I found courage to 
answer in this way, but somehow I seemed unable to 
help it — although I could not look at papa at the time. 

“Hush. Nonsense, girl. You must get rid of these 
romantic fancies. But in the mean time we must do 
what we can for ourselves.” I was glad he didn’t say 
anything more. It was a relief to be doing something 
active, though all the time I was thinking of his wild 
ride through the darkness and storm, trying to get 
help for us. 

Then papa began to prepare, in case we were attacked 
before help could come. W e were all alone in the house, 
papa and I, and poor Reginald, lying groaning on his 
bed. Papa did think of sending for Mr. Pinnock ; but 
there was nobody to send, for it was so dark that 


274 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


Bridget would not put her head outside the door. I 
would have tried to find my way, only papa would not 
let me go. Then he told me we could not possibly 
defend more than a small part of the house if they 
came, and he decided to take the dining-room and study, 
because both windows had strong outside shutters, and 
the dining-room one had an iron bar inside that made 
it quite safe. 

We managed with a great deal of trouble to bring 
Eeginald’s mattress into the study and laid him on the 
floor in a corner near the window. Then we dragged 
the furniture to the dining-room door to make a bar- 
ricade there. Papa had two large pistols, besides his 
sword, and he showed me how to load them, that I 
might do it for him while he guarded the door. It 
took us a long time to do all these things, for Bridget 
was too much frightened to be the least bit of use. We 
could hardly get her to do anything but sit and moan 
that she would be murdered, and why did she ever 
leave old Ireland ? 

At last we had done all we could do, and then we 
had only to wait. That was the worst of all. Papa 
paced up and down the two rooms with his hands be- 
hind him, just as he used to do on the veranda when 
everything was happy and peaceful ; but now his face 
was very pale, and his eyes looked ghastly and terrible 
whenever he looked at me. I could only sit and listen 
and think — perhaps I ought to say dream — of all that 
had happened on that strange and terrible yet, some- 
how, not unhappy day. So the time passed on for a 
long time, and nothing happened. Every now and 
then there would come a flash of lightning that filled 
the room for a moment with a blue glare that was 
blinding while it lasted. Then there would follow a 


AFTER THE STORM 


275 


long rolling crash that sounded as if the roof were of 
glass and were all being broken to pieces. Then for a 
while nothing would be heard but the heavy splash of 
the rain descending in torrents on the roof, and run- 
ning from the eaves in continuous streams. I don’t 
know how long it lasted. It seemed to be for ages, but 
I don’t suppose it really was so very long. 

At last, just as one long roll of thunder died away, 
there came the shrill sound of a long whistle from the 
front of the house. We started and listened. Then 
another came from the back, as if in answer, and then 
several more from all sides of the house. They had 
surrounded us. I looked at papa. His face had altered 
all in a moment. Even the paleness had gone, and 
now it looked quite natural again, all but the eyes. 
They had the strangest look, so bright and sparkling. 
He came over to where I sat by the table and blew out 
one candle and took the other. Then he said, quite 
quietly, “ Can you see to load, my dear, if I put the 
light on the mantel-piece ?” His tone was just his usual 
one, only perhaps a little more gentle. “ Yes, papa,” I 
said ; “ are they coming now ?” He put the candle on 
the mantel-piece and came back to me. 

“ Yes, my dear, they are here. Good-bye, Kate, in 
case anything happens. Load the pistols as fast as I 
fire them. Pray God your hero may be in time yet.” 

Then he stooped down and kissed me. As he did 
so, there were heavy footsteps on the veranda and 
a thundering knock at the front door. Papa took a 
pistol from the table and his sword, and stepping care- 
fully to the door of the room, waited there. Then the 
front door was violently shaken, and heavy blows were 
struck on it as if to break it open. It was a heavy 
door with a very large, strong lock, and it did not give 


276 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


way. Then, after a moment, we could hear the same 
noises at the back door, and in a minute or two it 
seemed to burst open and we could hear footsteps in the 
passage and voices calling out in the house. There was 
no light in the house except in the two rooms where 
we were, and both the doors and windows of these 
rooms were closed so that they were quite in the dark. 
We could hear them stumbling about the rooms and 
swearing terribly, and I think they must have thought 
we had gone away at first, for I heard one voice say, 
with a fearful oath, “That beggar has warned them 
off.” Then somebody tried the door of the dining- 
room, and exclaimed, “ No, this door’s fast, and there’s 
a light inside. Treed, by God I” 

I looked up at papa. He stood quite still, and waited. 
Then there came loud blows at the door, and then sev- 
eral shots were fired through the wall close to the door. 
One of the shots struck the stuffed bird that stood on 
the mantel-piece, and it fell inside the fender. I felt 
quite sorry about that bird. I had grown accustomed 
to it, and somehow it looked shocking to see it lying 
there with its feathers all knocked about. 

After beating at it for awhile they burst the door 
open. Papa hadn’t put the things quite against it, and 
now I could see why. The door only opened about half 
way, and it quite sheltered me from sight while it was 
open. The moment it gave way they must have seen the 
barricade by the light of our candle, for they did not 
come on at once. I could see papa smile such a strange 
grim smile, but he never moved nor took his eye off the 
door for an instant. Quite suddenly two men rushed 
in and tried to climb over the barricade, and I could see 
another head just behind them around the edge of the 
door. The men had got nearly up when papa fired the 


AFTER THE STORM 


277 


pistol. A voice exclaimed, “The devil!” and one man 
disappeared. Papa sprang forward and struck at the 
other man with the sword. I saw him raise the sword, 
but it looked so frightful that I covered my eyes with 
my hands. I heard a blow, and then a groan and a 
terrible oath, and at the same moment two guns were 
fired from the passage. I looked up hastily, but there 
papa was, quite cool and unhurt. He stepped back and 
laid the pistol on the table and picked up the other one. 

I loaded it and laid it on the table, and so it went on. 

Shots were fired from the passage every minute, 
some through the doorway and some through the wall, 
but they didn’t strike either of us. There were shouts 
and groans and yells all through the house, and hor- 
rible language that made my blood run cold all the 
time. Then they tried to break down our barricade, 
and while some of them tried to force their way over 
the top, others were knocking it to pieces at the bottom 
with something heavy. Every time any one tried to 
get over, papa drove him back either with the pistol 
or with his sword, but he couldn’t prevent them from 
beating it to pieces, as he couldn’t see them. Little by 
little they were managing to break it down. I could 
see papa looking anxiously at it as the barricade grew 
less and less, so I looked at it, too, and it seemed as if 
it would soon all be gone. I suppose I ought to have 
been very much frightened, but somehow I was not. I 
think I have been far more frightened by a bad dream, 
although this seemed to me very much like a dream, 
too. I looked at papa all the time with my eyes, 
but very often I seemed to myself to be away, follow- 
ing that desperate ride in the darkness, and wondering 
what he was thinking about. 

All of a sudden there came a scream from Bridget, 
24 


278 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


in the study, and papa only waited to fire at a man 
whose head was just showing above a chest of drawers 
which was the principal part of our defences that was 
left. The man gave a yell and fell back, and papa 
dashed through the open door into the study. In a 
second or two he was back again before any one else 
had tried to get over, and I noticed a new look on his 
face as he came back. As he sprang to the table for a 
p>istol he said to me, “ There is hope, now, Kate. He 
is back again.” I knew who he meant, of course, and 
I know I said, “ Thank God.” People often say that 
without meaning much, but this time, at least, I felt 
thankful. It was like hearing that an army had come, 
and my fears all seemed to go away at once. In a 
minute or two he came into the dining-room. He had 
a gun in his hand. I saw him, but I didn’t look at him. 
Somehow I could not, though I was so glad. 

I suppose it must have been the sight of his tall, 
strong figure standing there that made them do it, for 
after a little delay, and firing a few shots that did no 
harm, we could hear them trying to get a light. At 
last they succeeded, and then we could hear the fire 
begin to crackle and blaze, and knew they were setting 
fire to the wall of the dining-room next the kitchen. 
It took some time to do it, but at last the fire caught, 
and began to crackle and roar as it gained a firm hold 
of the wall. How these awful men shouted and swore 
outside the room ! It was worse than the bush fire, 
because it seemed so much more cruel. The bush fire 
would have killed one, of course, but there would have 
been no one to rejoice at it. 

At last papa told me to go into the study, and he 
and papa stayed behind in the smoke and fire that 
began to get very bad in the dining-room. I went and 


AFTER THE STORM 


279 


knelt beside poor Reginald, who was tossing, oh, so 
miserably, on the mattress we had laid on the floor. I 
don’t think he knew me or anything, for he only looked 
wildly into my face and whispered, “ The fire, the fire I 
Ride.” I put my hand on his brow to try if the touch 
would soothe him, but he threw it off, and started up, 
looking really awful, as he exclaimed, “ That scoundrel, 
again ! Flog him, shoot him.” 

At the very moment when he said the words the 
window gave way with a crash of broken glass and 
several shots were fired into the room. One of them 
must have struck Reginald. He threw up the arm 
that was not broken above his head, and the wild light 
that was glaring out of his poor mad eyes, that looked 
at me so terribly, suddenly died out, and with a groan 
he fell back quite dead. I was so horrified that I could 
do nothing but look at him, and quite forgot to call out 
for help ; but just then there were more shots, and he 
sprang past me and seized a man who had just got 
through the window by the throat. There was a fear- 
ful struggle quite near me, for it seemed as if there 
were a dozen men struggling for their lives, and I was 
so confused and terrified I could only cover my face 
and try to say a few words of prayer. 

Then I heard a loud, sharp voice just outside shout, 
“ Ho quarter, men !” and when I looked up the room 
seemed full of men in gray uniforms, and the men in 
convict garb were gone. The place and the people 
swam before my eyes. There was a loud roaring sound 
in my ears, like the sound of that awful sea of fire in the 
bush once more, and then all grew black and empty. 


CHAPTER IY. 


I suppose I must have fainted, but it could only have 
been for a very few seconds, for I opened my eyes on 
almost exactly the same scene and people as I had 
looked on last. An officer with a grave, stern face was 
bending over the chair in which I had been placed, and 
when I recovered enough to look up in his face he said, 
“ I am glad you are better, Miss Malcolm. I fear your 
father is badly hurt.” 

In a moment my strength seemed to come back to 
me, and I was strong enough to rise to my feet. I felt 
stupid and confused, but I said, “Where, oh, where is 
he ?” He offered to help me, but I didn’t require help, 
so he led me across the room to where they had laid 
papa, close to the broken window, on the bed we had 
brought down for poor Reginald. 

He was lying there propped up with pillows against 
the wall. His face was deadly pale, and it had a dread- 
ful gray look which I had seen before on some of the 
men on the “ Torres Yedras and his eyes seemed dull 
and sunken in his head. He knew me, for he smiled 
calmly, but oh, so very feebly that I could hardly help 
bursting into tears. 

“ Help me, Kate,” he whispered, in a strange, hoarse 
voice, that somehow sounded far away, trying at the 
same time to raise himself up. I knelt at his head and 
put my arm round his neck, raising his head on my 
shoulder. He was dying. I knew it quite well, but 
280 


AFTER THE STORM 


281 


just then I didn’t seem to be able to realize it or think 
about it. I could only do what he seemed to want, and 
try to make his position as easy as I could. “Now, 
read it.” His eyes looked at some one, so I looked too, 
and saw Mr. Curtis was there holding an open letter in 
his hand. “ Bead it, quick !” he repeated, impatiently ; 
and then Mr. Curtis read it aloud. 

“ Government House, April 3, 1835. 

“ My dear Colonel, — The enclosed letter (addressed 
to Mr. Fortescue) has just reached me from Downing 
Street. It was covered by a communication from the 
Secretary of State, which discloses one of the most 
startling and affecting stories of heroic self-sacrifice 
which has ever come under my notice. 

“ The gentleman to whom the enclosed letter is ad- 
dressed was, I find, assigned to you last September 
under the name of ‘Jenkins.’ I am happy to believe 
that in your hands he is not likely to have endured any 
ill treatment. I wish I could say as much for many 
of our settlers. As His Majesty has been pleased to 
grant him a free pardon, and it will give me personally 
the greatest pleasure to present him with it, I shall be 
glad if you will take immediate steps to forward him 
on his return to Sydney. 

“Yours very faithfully, 

“Richard Bourke, 

“ Governor.” 

He read it in a loud voice to the end, and it pained 
me to see the look almost of horror that gathered on 
papa’s face as he listened. 

“ Oh, my God !” he whispered, as if to himself. “ Oh, 
my God !” and great beads of perspiration started on 
24* 


282 


THE TRACK OP A STORM 


his cold brow. Then he held out his trembling hand. 
“ The enclosure,” he said — “ here, give it to me. I must 
give it him while I can.” 

Mr. Curtis stooped and placed a long official-looking 
envelope in his hand. He stared at it a moment, then 
he looked round him vaguely, as if seeking some one. 
“ Where? where is he ?” he asked. 

In another moment some one led him to the side of 
the bed. He was deadly pale, too, almost as pale as 
papa, and his black hair hung over his face, which was 
ghastly and streaked with blood. I was so shocked 
and frightened that I could only look at him. He 
looked into papa’s face and papa into his for several 
seconds, then papa slowly held out the letter towards 
him, and said something. I hardly heard what it was, 
and I am sure I didn’t understand it, for I couldn’t 
take my eyes off his face or think of anything else at 
the moment. He took the letter mechanically and his 
eyes rested on the address. Then he grasped the hand 
which papa still held out to him, and as he did so he 
bent lower and lower, till at last he sank on his face 
across the bed, still holding papa’s hand in his. 

They crowded round and lifted him up, but they had 
to disengage his fingers from papa’s : although he was 
quite unconscious he held them still. I almost thought 
he was dead. I am sure papa thought so, too. lie 
looked up in my face, then he slowly raised his feeble 
hand and laid it on mine. He struggled to speak, and I 
bent my ear close to him to listen. “ Good-bye, Kate,” 
he whispered, very low; “ Good-bye, dear; your hero 
was the real thing, after all. I wish I could have done 
something — amends — too late.” Slower and slower the 
last words fell from his lips in broken whispers. He 
looked up kindly into my face, then he shivered, and 


AFTER THE STORM 


283 


the light in his eyes seemed to go out all at once ; then 
he was quite still. 

“Come, Miss Malcolm. We cannot delay another 
moment. The fire will be upon us directly. Come.” 
It was the same officer who had spoken to me before 
who spoke again. Mechanically I obeyed him. I kissed 
poor papa’s cold brow just once — then I laid him gently 
down. The officer helped me, and I rose. Then he 
led me to the window and assisted me out. 

I can recall no more of the events of that awful 
night. A strange wild medley of sights and sounds, 
all of them ghastly and terrible, remains vaguely in 
my mind, but nothing can be clearly recalled that took 
place either then or for weeks afterwards. The last 
sight I was clearly conscious of was papa’s dead face 
as I kissed him and laid him down on the pillow in the 
old study, the other end of which was already filled 
with smoke and flames. 

When I got better again they told me that it was 
May, and that I was in Sydney. How I came there I 
never knew, but I found that I had been treated as a 
daughter or a sister at Government House all through 
the terrible brain fever which had followed on the 
terrors of that awful night. 

My very first visitor, as soon as I was well enough 
to see any one, was my old doctor of the “Torres 
Yedras.” He was just as kind and as funny as ever. 
The very first thing he did was to look at me with 
tears glistening in his eyes; the very first thing he 
said was, “ Hear me, Miss Malcolm, more illustrations 
of error. We could have found plenty here without 
dragging you into it. But there — error would only be 
half error unless it involved the wrong people as well 
as the wrong things.” He used to come to see me often 


284 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


after that, and it was he who told me all about him. 
He was still desperately ill. The doctors all said he 
would be almost sure to die, or if he lived at all he 
would perhaps never know anything again ; but my 
doctor said that was all nonsense. “ Only another 
illustration, my dear,” he would say, and then he would 
look the other way and take off his spectacles and rub 
them very hard with his handkerchief before he looked 
at me again. I almost think he must have guessed ; 
but yet, how could he ? 

Gradually I got quite strong and well again in body, 
but somehow I could hardly believe it. Life seemed 
to have grown so lifeless, — such a strange, blank thing, 
without any object or meaning in it. The governor 
was an old friend of papa’s, and he was very good to 
me. Gradually he began to talk to me about what I 
should do, and he advised me to let everything that 
papa had in this country be sold and go home again to 
auntie, with whom I had lived so long. Of course I 
said “ yes,” and asked him to be so kind as to get it all 
done for me, and he did. At last one day he told me 
it was all arranged and I should only have to sign 
some papers when I was twenty-one years old. I think 
he expected me to be in a hurry to go home, and per- 
haps he was surprised that I didn’t seem so. Of course 
he didn’t know the real reason — how could he ? — and 
I couldn’t tell him. 

Since I had got better only one thing really inter- 
ested me at all. Of course I knew that people wouldn’t 
understand, so I was forced to say nothing about it, 
but perhaps I thought about it all the more on that 
account. He was alive still, and my doctor said he was 
getting better. As long as there was a hope of that 
there was something left worth living for. I had heard 


AFTER THE STORM 


\ 285 


all the story from the doctor — the very saddest and 
most beautiful story in all the world, I think. And 
nobody knew all of it but myself. Mr. Pinnock had 
been murdered on that awful night; Mr. Turner had 
been killed; the prisoners had either been killed or 
dispersed then and executed afterwards ; and poor Joe 
was dead. Nobody was left who knew all but myself. 

I seemed to think of nothing else. If he would only 
recover! If I could only see him once more, just to 
tell him what papa said at the very last ; just to beg 
that he would forgive us the awful wrongs we had 
done him. 

This was why I had delayed a little longer. This 
was the reason I seemed in no hurry to go back to dear 
old auntie again. I couldn’t tell much of this even to 
the doctor; but I did tell him a little. I told him how 
grateful I felt to Mr. Fortescue for his brave defence 
of papa and myself. I told him that as soon as he was 
well enough I should like to see him to thank him just 
once. He said he quite understood. I wonder if he 
really did. Sometimes I was almost afraid he might. 
In spite of the Philosophy of Error he was very shrewd 
and quick, and sometimes I fancied there was a curious 
gleam in his eye when he talked about his patient. Oh, 
I do hope he did not. 

At last he told me that he felt sure Mr. Fortescue 
would soon be himself again. I am afraid 1 cried a 
little when I heard it, but I don’t think he saw me. 
He was only polishing his spectacles and looking at 
the ships in harbor, as he had a habit of doing when 
we were talking. I recovered myself almost in a 
moment and I said, “ Well, doctor, you know when he 
is well enough I am to see him that I may say good- 
bye and thank him.” 


286 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ Yes,” he said, quietly, “ Yes, I remember. I mean 
you to see him once, at any rate, before you leave us.” 

That was all he said then, but a few days after, when 
he was leaving, he asked me if I could be ready to 
come over to the hospital if he sent for me any after- 
noon. I said “ yes,” of course, but I confess I began to 
feel dreadfully frightened of seeing him again. What 
could I say when I did see him? I knew I had to 
beg forgiveness for poor papa and for all of us, and I 
shouldn’t have minded a bit begging it on my bended 
knees. It wasn’t that. Nothing could be too much 
to do in that way. But he — he might not care about 
remembering it at all. Like a terrible nightmare, 
he might be only too glad to forget all about it and 
about all of us. So I waited in. suspense, longing 
for, and yet dreading beyond everything, the doctor’s 
summons. 

And it was all so different — so different. It was one 
afternoon about the middle of July. There had been 
showers of frain and gleams — oh, such bright gleams ! — 
of sunshine between, when I was sent for at last. The 
nurse — she was such a kind old person, and seemed to 
be so fond of him — asked me to make haste. We 
walked quickly across the grounds without speaking 
at all, till she brought me into the house. Then the 
doctor came to me. He wouldn’t look at me, but 
whether that was for my sake or his own I don’t know; 
he only said, rather gruffly, I thought, “ Take off your 
hat and come with me.” I did what he bade me, 
though my hands trembled so that I could hardly get 
it off. Then we went along a passage. Then he opened 
a door and held it open for me to go in. 

It was his room, and he was there. He didn’t see 
me at first. His bed was turned the other way, and I 


AFTER THE STORM 


287 


could see that he was lying propped up with pillows. 
His face was very thin, and, oh, so dreadfully pale ! On 
the bed there were two letters ; I seemed in a moment 
to know somehow what they were — the letters he had 
taken from papa’s hand that night. I looked at him, 
and all my fears went away at once. I could remember 
only the face I had seen bending over me when I woke 
from my faint on horseback ; I seemed to feel somehow 
the touch of his lips once more on my hand as I had 
felt it that day at the gate of the home paddock. I 
was no longer afraid. I said his name ; I dare say my 
voice trembled a little, but he heard it. He turned his 
head round ; he looked at me with such eyes, so full 
of hopeless sorrow for the past, it seemed — so full of 
despair, I thought, for the future. 

I forgot about asking for pardon ; I forgot my peti- 
tion for forgiveness for papa and all of us. I only 
thought how sad he was ; I only wanted to do some- 
thing to comfort him. I stretched out my hand to him 
across the bed. With a low cry, a cry that sounded 
like hunger, he grasped it in his long white fingers. 
Then he bent his noble head forward, and great tears 
dropped on my hand — on mine ! 

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t turn away ; least of all 
could I have spoken just then. I glanced at the doctor, 
that he might understand why I stayed so, but he only 
smiled and left the room, closing the door behind him 
silently. 

At last he looked up, and in his eyes there was the 
same radiant light that I had seen there twice before. 
I felt confused. I don’t know how I looked, but I said, 
hurriedly, — 

“ Oh, Mr. Jenkins— I— I beg pardon— Mr. Fortescue 
— I am so sorry !” 


288 


THE TRACK OF A STORM 


“ Sorry,” he repeated, “ sorry for me ? Yes, you may 
well be that, for I have failed — failed in everything.” 

“Failed!” I exclaimed, and I know my face must 
have flushed crimson when I said it. “ Failed ! No ! 
No one ever succeeded if you have failed ! Oh, I did 
so want to tell you how much papa wished he could 
have lived to make some little amends ! I wanted to 
tell you that if I could — if I were only a man — I would 
show you what I think — I would know how to thank 
you for all your goodness.” 

I stopped — I was obliged to stop — as I spoke he gazed 
so strangely into my face. As he looked, his eyes 
seemed to grow brighter and brighter as if with a kind 
of glory. 

“No,” he whispered, “No. If you were a man you 
could not ! Is it wildly possible that, in spite of all, you 
will?” 

What did he mean? What could he mean? His 
eyes seemed to hold me fast. I couldn’t look away for 
a moment, yet just then I would have given worlds to 
look away and recover myself. 

“ How ?” I managed to say, at last. “ How ? what 
do you mean ? What can I do ?” 

“ Ah,” he exclaimed, “ is it, can it be really true ?” 
As he spoke he threw his weak arms round me. He 
drew me towards him. 

“ Bescued,” he whispered, as he kissed me again and 
again, “rescued.” 


THE END. 







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